


Finding His Fae

by Lindenharp



Series: Faerie Tales [2]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-09 19:03:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19892794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp
Summary: It's the morning after their dramatic reunion. James and Robbie have a week of holiday left in the north. It's an opportunity for James to learn more about Robbie's past--and to wonder what sort of future they can have together when they return to Oxford.This is a sequel to "Away with the Faeries", and won't makemuchany sense if you haven't read that story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to the magnificent Sasha1600, beta, cheerleader, gadfly, etc. 
> 
> Many thanks also to Small_Hobbit for kindly offering to Britpick a 23k epic, and saving me from embarrassing Americanisms.

"And there was evening and there was morning, the first day," James murmurs to himself. This is the eighth morning he’s awakened in this little B&B, but it feels as though the world has just been created. At the very least, his personal world has been re-created. He stretches languidly beneath the duvet, then blinks at the sunlight that streams through the narrow gap in the curtains to splash itself on the bedroom wall, turning the white plasterboard to antique ivory. "What time is it?" His watch and his mobile are on the table on the far side of the room.

"It's just gone seven," a familiar voice rumbles.

James turns to see Robbie emerging from the small ensuite of their room, accompanied by a few wisps of steam. He's dressed, though his feet are bare, and a damp towel is draped around his shoulders to protect his clothing from his still-wet long hair. James can't stop goggling at Robbie's hair. Its length is proof that Robbie spent a full year in the Fae kingdom of Underhill while James waited for a week in the world above.

If Robbie's hair wasn't goggle-worthy by itself, his outfit is... eclectic, to say the least. Robbie has on the snug black trousers he wore yesterday, when he emerged from Underhill. He's swapped the plaited leather belt with its intricate silver buckle for one made of black nylon webbing, and the blue silk tunic for a cotton work shirt in a green and yellow check pattern. It's only half-buttoned, and James can see a scattering of dark chest hairs framing an amber pendant that hangs from a thin gold chain. He had caught only a glimpse of it last night when Robbie was undressing for bed; now he can see that it's carved into a shape like an angular 'S'. Possibly a rune?

Abruptly, James realises that he's staring. "You're up early."

Robbie acknowledges this with a half shrug. "I woke up about half four and couldn't fall back to sleep. I reckon I'm jet-lagged." He pulls a face. "Don't laugh. I don't know what else to call it. And it's like the first time we met—me coming back to England, feeling all muddle-headed, and wearing a funny shirt."

This time James lets the laugh out. "I liked the way you looked in that shirt. Last night, I mean."

"Did you, now? I'll remember that.” Robbie crosses the short distance to James’s side of the bed. “Budge over. You all right, bonny lad?”

"Aside from being in need of a shower and a cup of coffee? Never better." Seeing a hint of concern in the other man's eyes, James immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion. "Are you regretting last night?"

"Me? Never. I just wondered if I'd been... too enthusiastic, too soon?"

"Not too enthusiastic," James assures him. He'd been surprised by the intensity of Robbie's desire: his urgent demands for pleasure and his generosity in giving it in return. "And definitely not too soon. I'd been waiting all week after that kiss." Not that he'd known what would come of that unexpected, unexplained kiss.

"And I was waiting all year," Robbie says. "I had a lot of time to think about what I wanted." He brushes a fingertip down James's cheek and across his stubbled jaw.

James holds his breath, suddenly very aware that he's naked beneath the sheet. Robbie's smile says he's aware of it, too.

The silence is interrupted by the very unromantic sound of a grumbling stomach, followed by a rueful chuckle. "I reckon that what I want right now is me breakfast. Out of bed, lazybones, and get dressed."

James obeys. He takes a hasty shower, decides that shaving can wait, and dons the first set of clean clothing that comes to hand. He walks out of the bathroom to find Robbie fully dressed: shirt buttoned, hair tied back, and a pair of battered trainers on his feet. The only other footwear for a man in Mrs Keeling's "left luggage" cupboard had been dress shoes (two sizes too small) and a pair of purple flip-flops. Hanging from his shoulder is a sturdy leather bag, about the size of a messenger bag. James vaguely remembers seeing it last night. "Ready?"

"As ready as I'm going to be." Robbie pulls a face. "I look like an old hippy."

Privately, James has to agree, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. "We'll go to the shops after breakfast, and you can look like yourself again." _Like one of your selves, at any rate._

A few minutes later, they're sat in the sunny breakfast room. Mrs Keeling pours two cups of coffee, and sets the pot on the table. James requests his usual eggs and toast, but Robbie opts for the full English. "Been too long since I've had a proper fry-up." He takes a sip of coffee, and a look of utter bliss passes over his face.

"Good coffee?" James asks.

"Best I've had all year."

James represses a shudder. _An entire_ year _without coffee?_ He'd given it up for Lent, once, and still isn't sure how he got through the full forty days without committing homicide. "What did you have for breakfast while you were... away?"

Robbie swallows another mouthful of coffee. "Same stuff I ate as a bairn, mostly. Porridge. Oatcakes with honey. Barley bread with cheese."

"But the—they go outside, sometimes. Couldn't someone have fetched a supply of coffee for you?"

"They could have done, aye. Would’ve done, if I'd asked." Robbie glances around the room, and although the other guests are all absorbed in their own conversations, he says with quiet firmness. "Later." They talk about inconsequential things, such as the High Street shop in Rothbury where Robbie can buy some clothing.

"Here you are, gentlemen." Mrs Keeling announces, and two well-laden plates are set before them. Conversation ceases, except for essentials such as 'more coffee?' and 'pass the marmalade'.

The meal over, they head for the car. The first few minutes of the drive go by in silence. Robbie lets out a soft sigh. "I knew you'd have a lot of questions today. I didn't think the first one would be about breakfast. And I'm dead certain you didn't think it would be so complicated."

"The coffee? I guessed that you didn't want to be too demanding about trivial things while you were conducting delicate negotiations."

"You've got that backwards. I needed to be demanding about trivial things." He sighs again. "The Fae have expectations of their rulers, and one of them is a certain amount of high-handedness. I could've demanded poached eagle's eggs for breakfast, served in a golden bowl, and they'd have nodded and said, 'Now, there's a proper king!'"

James chuckles. "And did you?"

"Nah. I don't care for the taste. I asked for swan's eggs instead, on a crystal platter."

"But swans belong to the Queen..." James halts, remembering the swan in Oxford that had come out of the river and bowed to Robbie.

"And we allow her to have most of them," Robbie replies genially. "Any road, it can all be summed up in one word: politics. To get anything done, I had to fit in, and I was already at a disadvantage."

"Because of your mother?" James asks carefully. _Your human mother_.

Robbie's frown is puzzled, not angry. "My mam? They all loved her. Oh, you mean on account of me being _bleónd_? That wasn't an issue. As long as I had magic, and was of the right lineage, I was acceptable. No, it was because I'd lived for so long outside. They needed to see that I was still one of them."

"Is that why... your hair?"

"Among other things, aye. I suppose that Rothbury has got a barber?"

It does, only a short distance from the clothing shop. Robbie elects to have his hair cut first, so "I don't make more of a spectacle of myself than necessary."

There's a bit of a wait, as it's Saturday, but eventually James is walking up the high street beside a neatly-shorn Robbie. "The shop's just ahead," he explains. "It mostly sells outdoor and casual clothing. You can get trousers, polo shirts, walking shoes—that sort of thing. There's also a charity shop, if you want to look there first."

Robbie shakes his head. "I don't fancy poking around a charity shop, trying to find something in my size. The other will do well enough." He halts abruptly. "I don't know how much to buy. How long have we got?"

"We've got another six days of leave. We could start out for Oxford today, or perhaps divert to visit your daughter?"

An even more vigorous shake. "No. I'm not ready to see Lyn, or to go back home. I have to... settle back into myself. I'd like to stay around here, but maybe we could find someplace that's more private?"

James agrees. "A self-catering holiday cottage. There will be listings at the Tourist Centre." For a moment, he considers suggesting that they can split up: he can organise the cottage while Robbie buys some clothing. It would be a time-saver. But although Robbie is a man of many talents—magical and mundane—fashion sense is not one of them. "First, let's find you some new clothing, so you don't look like you dressed yourself while blindfolded at a jumble sale."

* * *

The listing that claimed Juniper Cottage would accommodate four people was perilously close to false advertising. The only bedroom has a full-sized bed, and a folding bed is tucked behind the wardrobe. Where a fourth person would sleep, James has no idea. Kip on the sofa in the sunny kitchenette/lounge? Any road, it's quite comfortable for two.

The garden is small. There's a brick patio with a bistro table and chairs, two sun loungers, and a few colourful container plants. A fence separates the bordering lawn from a meadow that blends into the woods on the right side, and stretches towards distant hills on the left.

Robbie nods towards the hills. "We'll have a good view of the sunset."

"Not for a while yet." They'd managed to select clothing for Robbie, book the cottage, and retrieve their belongings from the B&B in record time. Once at the cottage, they took a few minutes to stash their bags and James's guitar in the bedroom, and test that the lights, water, cooker, and fridge are all functioning. Now it's back to town for a pub lunch and a quick stop at the market for some essentials.

"Shall we go?"

"Just one moment." Robbie grabs the leather bag from the bistro table and slings it over his left shoulder. "Ready."

"Is there something in there you need to have with you?" James asks. He's half-turning towards the front gate when he catches a glimpse of Robbie's face: wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

"You can _see_ it?"

In times of utter confusion, James generally takes refuge in silence or flippancy. "My contact lens prescription may need to be changed before long, but it's not _that_ inadequate. I can, in fact, see objects larger than my head at a distance of less than two metres."

Robbie is shaking his head. "No, but you shouldn't... Describe it," he commands.

James does so, in calm detail, as if reporting at a crime scene. He includes the colour of the leather, the estimated size of the bag, the length and thickness of the strap, and the carved wooden button and rawhide toggle that hold the flap closed.

"Bloody hell. They told me they put a _heolstor_ on it. A concealment. Said no one would notice it." He looks at James, bewildered and a little expectant.

James's mind is racing. How can he possibly understand why an enchantment has failed when he doesn't understand how magic works in the first place? If Robbie is perplexed, what chance does a mere mortal have? He's an educated man who's read Aristotle and Aquinas in the original Greek and Latin, but he doubts that he'll find any help in their words.

_“It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data."_ a voice says in the back of his mind, and he grins at the memory. Sergeant John Hackett, perhaps the most demanding, humourless instructor at the Police Training Centre, had been unaccountably fond of quoting Sherlock Holmes. 

"James?"

"Erm, sorry. I've got an idea. Lunch first, all right?"

Lunch is at a pub in town: pork pie for Robbie, Caesar salad with grilled chicken for James. They both opt for beer from a local microbrewery. After draining his second pint, James rises and approaches a group of three couples at a nearby table. "Pardon me, but my friend and I are having a disagreement, and I was hoping you could help us settle it." They're in a cheerful mood, so he steps closer and beckons Robbie over. "This is my friend, Robbie. Say 'hello' to the nice people, Robbie."

"Hello, nice people," Robbie says with a mock glare at James, then turns and walks out of sight, as agreed.

James explains the bet he has with his friend. They're both mystery buffs, and enjoy watching detective shows on the telly. Robbie disapproves of how often the crime is solved because a witness was able to describe the suspect in painstaking detail. James thinks that the human mind is capable of extraordinary feats of memory. "Especially women," he adds. The ladies of the group laugh. The challenge is for each of them to write down a description of Robbie. "Everything you can think of." He hands out blank pieces of paper from his pocket notebook.

Five minutes later, Robbie walks back in. James waves a fistful of papers in his direction. "You owe me a fiver, mate—and we owe these nice people a round."

In the privacy of the car, Robbie looks at him impatiently. "Well?"

"The usual range of accuracy. Bob thought you were wearing a grey t-shirt and black trousers." Robbie snorts, looking down at his pale green polo shirt and dark blue jeans. "Cathy got the clothing right, but couldn't recall the colour of your eyes. Frank and Eliza did pretty well—he caught your accent, by the way. Jim was somewhere in the middle, but Monica was the star."

"Aye?"

"The witness of every detective's dreams. Eyes, weight, height. Clothing, down to the brand of trainers on your feet. She even noticed how you wear your watch, with the face on the inside of the wrist." James sighs. "And not one of them, not even eagle-eyed Monica, mentioned the bag."

"But you can see it." Robbie frowns. "It's not really a problem. The _heolstor_ is a protection for the _hýdesacc_ —the bag—and of course it doesn't need to be protected from you. I trust you, but I don't understand why it's not working the way they said..."

Because 'Robbie, you're babbling and I know you only had two pints' doesn't seem like a terribly helpful thing to say, James blurts out the other thought at the top of his mind. "What's in it?"

"Gifts."

"Like your pendant?" At Robbie's startled look, James adds. "I saw it when you were getting dressed. _Please_ tell me that it's not supposed to be invisible, too."

That draws an indulgent laugh out of Robbie. "Not invisible. Not magic. It's just a piece of jewelry." He pulls it up from beneath his shirt just long enough for James to see the shape of it. "It's the rune _eoh_. The yew-tree. Sort of a family thing." He glances down at the bag. "I'll show you the rest, I promise, but when we get home, all right?"

James nods. He's immensely curious, but he can understand that Robbie doesn't want to expose priceless Fae treasures while sitting in a car park on a busy Saturday afternoon. He can wait. They only need to do a quick shop before returning to the cottage. 

As they're putting the shopping away, he discovers that the cottage is not "home". Home is Oxford, and Robbie's modest two-bedroom suburban house with the miraculous garden.

Robbie is apologetic. It's not just a matter of privacy, but of magic. "The King and Queen said I shouldn't take them out of the bag until I'm seated in my own place of power." He raises his hands, palms upwards. "I know it sounds daft. The whole ceremony was in the old speech—almost everything was in the old speech, but the crowning and the farewell were in a very old, very formal dialect. I got the gist of it, but there were some parts..." He shrugs. "So, you'll have to wait. Sorry."

"Not a problem," James assures him. "Does this mean you don't know what they gave you?"

"Nah, I got to see everything before it was put into the bag. Part of the ceremony—from their hands into mine." Robbie studies the bag as if it were a particularly recalcitrant suspect. "I know you've seen me do a few things, and maybe you think that's impressive, but it isn't, compared to this. Magic like this is beyond me. Beyond my doing, beyond my understanding."

If Robbie thinks this makes him less amazing in James's eyes, he's very much mistaken, but an answer is required. 

"Could you learn to do it?"

Robbie frowns. "Maybe? Any magic requires strength, intention, and skill. I've got the strength. Intention is focused will. I'd have that for something that mattered to me. Skill... every Fae has his own aptitudes and abilities." He pauses. "Like how you play guitar. You might be able to learn violin, but could you do it well enough to perform at the Albert Hall? I might be able to learn to make a _heolstor_ , if I spent twenty years studying it."

James nods. "What do you want to do this afternoon? We've a few hours yet until sunset." He gestures at a small rack of tourist pamphlets on the coffee table.

"Tomorrow, maybe. Today, I'd just like to go for a walk."

They set out in a vaguely westward direction. The weather is bright and breezy; the terrain , variable enough to be interesting, but not too rough. They pass by the cluster of juniper shrubs that give the cottage its name, and turn onto what seems to be a path heading north into the woods. They walk at an easy pace, talking about inconsequential things. During the frequent, comfortable silences, James studies Robbie, comparing the man he knew in Oxford with the one who returned to him yesterday. Physically, there isn't much difference, now that the barber has done his job. Is there perhaps more strength, more vitality in the man beside him?

The path they've been following is no longer visible, but Robbie continues forward. Now and then, he slows his pace to brush a hand against one of the trees. James has seen him make the exact same gesture at police conferences, greeting friends and colleagues with a friendly touch on the arm as he makes his way through a crowd.

He spots another odd behaviour: Robbie keeps patting the side of his right hip. At first, James thinks he's checking that his wallet is there, but Robbie doesn't keep it on that side. And his hand is touching a spot _above_ the pocket.

Robbie notices him noticing. "What? Have I got a loose thread or something that Eagle-Eye Monica didn't see?"

"No, but you keep—" James demonstrates the movement on himself.

"I keep—oh!" Robbie flushes. "I haven't got used to not wearing a dagger."

"Was that part of fitting in?" Though James finds it hard to imagine Robbie Lewis carrying a weapon, it might have been expected of Hreodbeord _Cyning_.

"Some, but mostly because it was useful. And the royal hearth-guards would've gone spare if I'd been walking around unarmed. So I wore it, and kept it under my pillow when I went to bed." He says this as matter-of-factly as another man might announce that he keeps throat lozenges in his desk.

"Was it _that_ dangerous?" James envisions labyrinthine plots and conspiracies, with assassins hiding in every shadow.

"Nah, just taking normal precautions," Robbie says. "And truthfully? If someone was sneaking into my bedroom, it wouldn't have been to do me harm."

_Prey in a rather different sort of hunt._ "That must have been awkward," James says, as diplomatically as he can manage, though he can't hold back a smile.

"Awkward? It was terrifying." Robbie turns to scowl at James. "Don't you dare laugh. Politics Underhill is tricky enough, what with alliances and kinships and rivalries going back centuries, or longer. I know of one feud that's older than Stonehenge—actually, it's _about_ Stonehenge, though I've never understood the details. Mixing in sex with all of that would have been a nightmare, and I won't have you joking about it as if it was a bloody French farce." He pauses and touches another tree, but this time he stands still, pressing his palm against the bark as if gathering strength from the contact. The tree trembles, its upper branches swaying as if in a fierce gust of wind, though there's only the lightest breeze blowing. After an endless moment, Robbie droops his head and murmurs, "Sorry." 

_Is he talking to me or to the tree?_

"Sorry." This time the word is spoken in a firm, clear voice. Robbie is looking directly at him, a rueful smile on his lips. "Didn't mean to be such a grumpy sod." 

_I wish I'd been there to help you._ James drawls, "It's good to know you haven't changed."

The smiles broadens. "Prat. Let's go that way." He points to another not-really-a-path which meanders, crossing other indistinct tracks. Robbie strides through the wood as if he were treading the familiar streets of Oxford. The path rises, but so gradually that when James comes to its end and steps out of the trees into the open, the view takes him by surprise. Below the treeline, the land stretches out in a series of green hills and valleys, punctuated with the occasional walking path or low stone wall. From somewhere out of sight, he hears the soft mooing of a cow. High overhead, two hawks are drifting in the wide, slow circles that mean they're looking for supper.

"I've missed this," Robbie says suddenly. "Being outside."

"You didn't—at all?" James frowns. "Politics again?" Did the Fey imagine that their reluctant monarch would run away?

"Partly, but also because the times didn't line up very often. Some days it's easier to open the portals." He frowns. "What's the date?" The answer makes him nod emphatically. "That explains a lot. Yesterday was the equinox."

"Right. Liminal times."

"Translation, if you please?"

" _Limen_ is 'threshold' in Latin. It's a time that's... in between other times. A period of transition."

"The change of seasons, aye. And sunrise and sunset, and the phases of the moon." There's a long silence, and then he adds, "Seems to me that this holiday is a liminal time for me, between life Underhill, and normal life. Liminal place, too, if there is such a thing."

James nods. "Because it's close to the portals?"

"Yes and no. There are places around here that I remember visiting when I was a bairn. But it's the people, too. There's more than a few families hereabouts with Fae blood in them."

"Like you?"

" _Bleóndan_ ? Nah. For _hyllcynn_ , the connection is farther back, and they haven't got much real magic. They usually know their lineage, and some of them can sense magic, or have a touch of the Sight or other gifts." He pauses, frowning. "Leastways, that was true in my day. Dunno what it's like now."

Once again, James is reminded that the age gap between them is much wider than anyone might guess from looks alone. When Robbie says 'my day', he means sometime in the 19th century. "And can you tell who they are, these hill-kin?" He uses the modern pronunciation rather than embarrass himself by stumbling over the Old English.

Robbie frowns. "Should do. Haven't had much of a chance to try. There'd be very few down south, and I haven't met many local folk since yesterday." He glances at the sky. "We should head back now, I reckon."

Spag bol and a salad is the easiest option for supper. They divide the work between them with very little discussion. After the meal, they settle on the sofa to read. Robbie plucks a paperback novel from the shelf beneath the window. James takes a selection of brochures on local historic and scenic sites. After glancing at the first few, he retrieves his notebook and a biro, and begins making notes.

At 10:00, they watch the news. Towards the end, just before sport and weather, there's a brief segment on yesterday's earthquake. No damage was reported. A geologist from Durham University explains that although two earthquakes within a fortnight is uncommon in the UK, it is neither extraordinary, nor an indication of worse to come. The news presenter follows up with a glib recounting some of the more creative explanations offered by members of the public. The earthquake was caused by underground weapons testing, an explosion at a secret terrorist base, the landing of an alien spaceship, or a sign of Divine wrath. No one, apparently, is blaming the Fae.

Robbie switches off the telly. "I was thinking of bed."

It's a bit early to call it a night, considering that they're on holiday, but James supposes that it was a busy day. "Tired?"

"Not yet. Was thinking you could do something about that."

"I will do my best," James says gravely.

"I can't ask fairer than that. Come along, bonny lad."

* * *

Afterwards, they are both thoroughly and gloriously tired. Robbie cleans himself off with a damp flannel that James fetched from the bathroom. He mumbles something that might be 'thank you' and falls promptly asleep.

James looks at the sleeping man beside him. This new... connection between them seems unbelievable, far more fantastic than magical earthquakes and invisible bags. Robbie's earlier words echo in his mind: _'This holiday is a liminal time for me, between life Underhill, and normal life'_. What will 'normal' life be like when they return to Oxford?

He'd asked Robbie, who'd hadn't been fussed. _"We'll just have to be discreet_ ," he'd replied. That's doable. Keeping schtum about his personal life is a well-ingrained habit for James; it's been a lifestyle for Robbie.

Still... all sorts of niggling doubts keep intruding. He doesn't doubt Robbie's sincerity or his determination to make this work. It just seems too good to be true. Too good to happen to James Hathaway.

'Carpe diem' has never been a personal motto for James. He likes to know what’s coming, to plan ahead. Life has taught him to be cautious. But during this one week before reality sets in, he’ll live in the moment. Resolution made, he rolls closer to Robbie, and lets the other man’s warmth and soft snores lull him into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not long after I posted Away with the Faeries, I started working on a sequel: a casefic set in Oxford immediately after the Dynamic Duo returned from the north. I worked on it, on and off (mostly off) over the next two years, and it grew to 8k words before I paused. The investigation was coming along nicely, but I also needed to develop James and Robbie's new relationship, and that was giving me trouble. It also occurred to me that I needed to consider the effects on both men caused by Robbie's year-in-a-week Underhill. And they did have another week left of their two-week holiday.... This story is the result. I will be returning to the casefic, and have some vague plot ideas about future stories in the series.
> 
> I have never studied Old English. The snippets of "the old speech" that appear in this story are based on information from several online dictionaries. If they differ from standard usage, please feel free to assume that this is due to linguistic drift in the Fae dialect of OE. Likewise, I have taken poetic license with my use/interpretation of the Anglo-Saxon runes.


	2. Chapter 2

According to the tourist brochures in the cottage, Northumberland National Park occupies more than 1,000 square kilometres—about one-quarter of the county—just south of the Scottish border. It's studded with historical remains: Bronze Age burial cairns, Hadrian's Wall, medieval castles, and Victorian industrial sites. Robbie has seen many of them during his two childhoods here. "Why don't you choose, since you haven't been here before," he tells James. They don't have enough time to see everything.

James chooses several destinations based not just on personal interest, but the hope that Robbie will have interesting tales to tell. For the most part, his hopes are realised.

At Lady's Well, James gazes at the shallow pool where St Ninian was said to have baptized early Christians. There are other visitors about, so Robbie leads him further along the path before beginning a story about a holy woman who lived nearby.

Harbottle Castle consists of a scattering of ruins atop a green hill and a short stretch of wall further down. After they've walked around the site, Robbie invites James to sit beside him on a sun-warmed stone. "In 1311, when this castle still stood tall and strong, Robert, King of the Scots, attacked..."

Within the first few sentences, James understands that Robbie is repeating a first-person account of the capture of Harbottle Castle, told to him by a Fae warrior who witnessed the battle. When the tale is complete, James shakes his head, amazed. There are contemporary chronicles of raids and assaults by Robert the Bruce, but they're dry summaries, compiled by scribes. "What was he doing there? The Fae."

"Grimbold didn't tell me, but I reckon that he was sent by my grandad to spy."

"I thought the Fae didn't involve themselves in human politics."

"Not usually," Robbie agrees, "but there's a difference between gathering information and taking action."

After a pub lunch in Harbottle Village, James proposes a walk to the nearby Drake (or Dragon) Stone. It was said to be sacred to the Druids, and to have special healing powers. He can't wait to hear what mystical insights Robbie may have.

Robbie looks up at the ten-metre high sandstone boulder. "It's a rock," he says flatly. 

"That's all you have to say about it?"

"A very large rock."

"They say the Druids held ceremonies here."

"They may have done. Very fond of large rocks, the Druids were."

* * *

The next few days are an agreeable mixture of activity and relaxation. Naturally, James wants to know more about some of the places they've seen. There's a Waterstone's in Morpeth, but he's always preferred small, independent bookshops.

Cottage Books is a small, two-storey stone building. It has the plain, sturdy look that James associates with farm buildings he's seen in the area. The front door is flanked by planters with gold and white chrysanthemums. Nearby, a tall iron pole supports a birdhouse that resembles a medieval castle.

A bell chimes as they enter. The proprietor is not in sight. The only customer is a woman standing at the counter, long nails tapping on the polished oak surface. As James and Robbie make their way to the section marked 'Local History and Travel' they hear her call out, "Excuse me!" in a shrill, imperious tone.

The light, rapid sounds of footsteps come from the rear of the shop, followed by a soft local voice. "May I help you?"

"I can't find your Fae books."

"Those will be in folklore, next to the history—"

"No, I want _Fae_ books. You know—like Sabrina Stirling, _Finding Her Fae._ Amanda Ashworth, _Love's Magical Mystery._.."

"I don't carry those sorts of books here. They're disrespectful to the Good Folk." 

James has seen some of these romances on Amazon while searching for more serious books on the Fae. He used the 'Look Inside' function to skim their contents, curious to see how the authors handle Fae lore. Mostly, they ignore it. The mysterious Fae lords in these books could, with only a little rewriting, be replaced with vampires, werewolves, pirates, or Highland warriors.

"Disrespectful? Don't be absurd." The tourist's voice lowers, as if confiding a secret, though James can hear her well enough in the small space. "They capture the very essence of the Fae. I should know. My mother always told me that there was Fae blood in our ancestry."

James doesn't hear the proprietor's reply, because Robbie is whispering in his ear, "If she's _hyllcynn_ , I'll eat my warrant card for breakfast."

The rapid clacking of high heels across the wooden floor is followed by the sound of the front door opening and closing. James continues to browse the history books while Robbie drifts around the corner to 'Sports and Entertainment'.

"May I help you find something?"

James looks up from the pages of _Written in Stone: A Prehistory of Northumbria_. The bookshop assistant is standing a polite distance away. She's a pleasant-looking woman in her late sixties with silver-streaked auburn hair, wearing a green sweatshirt that proclaims 'So Many Books, So Little Time" in bold white calligraphic lettering. 

"I'm all right, thanks. You have a very good selection here." He's about to ask if she's the owner, when her eyes go wide and her face pale. She's staring at something behind him.

Did someone enter while he was absorbed in the book? A sneak thief, a vengeful ex? He whirls around, but sees only Robbie, holding a book on Newcastle United. Robbie is also staring, but his posture is relaxed, and he's smiling. " _Waes thu hael, níedmáge_ ," he says to the woman. "Hello, cousin."

The woman draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. " _Waes thu hael_ , Elder Cousin." Her face is regaining its color. She straightens, and clasps her hands in front of her. "Be welcome, and welcome, and thrice welcome beneath my roof, Elder..." 

The greeting sounds oddly familiar. As the recitation continues, James watches. Robbie is clearly pleased to have met one of his human cousins, and if the lengthy greeting annoys him, he doesn't let it show. His reply is equally formal, though shorter. He concludes by introducing James and himself, using his modern name.

The bookseller is Margaret (“call me Maggie”) Dunn. She looks at Robbie expectantly, and James realises that she’s waiting to learn the reason for this extraordinary visitation.

Robbie realises it, too. “This is an unexpected pleasure, meeting you. James wanted some books on local history, since he’s never been here before. We live down south, in Oxford.”

“You live _Outside_?” Her startled expression is quickly replaced by a pink flush. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn't’—“

“None of this ‘sir’ nonsense, lass,” Robbie says. “No need to be so formal, not between family, and under your roof. The fact is, I’m _bleónd_ , and I’ve made a life for myself Outside.”

“But... you’re of the Yew!” she protests.

James thinks instantly of the yew-rune pendant beneath Robbie’s shirt. Robbie thinks of it, too, because his hand starts to rise up to his chest, as if to check that it’s still hidden. “You’ve more than a fair touch of the Sight, Cousin Maggie.”

She shakes her head. "I can't See what's to come, or find what's lost, or read the hearts of others. All I can do is See magic, which isn't hard when it's stood in front of me, blazing brighter than Coquet Lighthouse."

"Is that so?" Robbie smiles. "I can't See myself, so I'll take your word for it. As for the rest..." He hooks one finger under the collar of his shirt, and pulls out the amber pendant on its cord.

Maggie's face is bright with joy. She murmurs a short phrase in Old English. Robbie replies in the same language, but she shakes her head. "I only know bits and pieces."

James isn't used to feeling like the dullest person in the room, but he swallows his pride. "Translation, please?"

Maggie glances at Robbie, who nods his permission. "Sorry, I didn't realise. It's from the Anglo-Saxon Rune Poem. 'Yew is on the outside a rough-barked tree; Firm and fast in the earth, the keeper of fire; Is sustained by roots, is the pride of the realm.'"

James adds 'runes' to the mental list of topics he needs to read up on. He studies Maggie. Her attention is entirely focused on Robbie. The joy is still there, but there's tension, too, and her body language says that there are things she wants to say. He wonders if he should excuse himself for a smoke break, or to fetch something from the car. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Robbie move his hand slightly, holding the palm parallel to the floor. _Don't go._

"Cousin Maggie," he says gently, "maybe we could chat over a cuppa, eh?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry—I should have thought to offer." She leads them behind the counter and through an open doorway into a room that is half-office, half-kitchen. There's a small round oak table in the centre of the room, with a single chair drawn up to it. Maggie rolls her desk chair over to the table, and James carries another from the far corner of the room. Within minutes, the electric kettle is switched on, and the table is set with green-glazed pottery mugs, and a sugar bowl and milk jug to match. The teapot that completes the set is a stout, whimsical dragon, whose curved tail forms the handle, and whose nostrils emit gusts of steam.

It's nothing that James would ever choose to have in his own home, but he can admire the craftsmanship and the finely-etched details. He comments on it, and Maggie explains that the set was created by a local potter. "I call him Puff."

Robbie chuckles. "Like the song?"

The insipid melody of that song starts to play in James's head. Hastily, he asks Maggie how long she's owned the bookshop. 

As she talks, she crosses the room and retrieves two items from a small cupboard: a tin of biscuits and a plate covered with a tea towel. She sets them down on the table, and unveils the plate to reveal a large, round tea bread. A piece has been cut from one side, so he can see that it is yeast-risen and flaky, and has a centre filling that is dense with currants and sugar.

"Lardy cake!" Robbie says, in a tone somewhere between delight and reverence.

Maggie serves him a generous slice, then places an even larger one in front of James. "You need feeding up," she says firmly. "Your lord should see that you eat properly."

"I'm not his lord!" Robbie sputters. "Why would you say such a daft thing?" 

"But—" Maggie looks back and forth between the two men.

"I'm not. James, tell her."

James looks at Robbie, and replies with exaggerated meekness, "Yes, m'lord." He turns to Maggie and says, like a schoolboy reciting a lesson, "He's not my lord."

"Smartarse," Robbie grumbles.

Maggie's face softens into a smile. "So it's that way between you, is it? All the more reason to look after him."

James can feel the burning in his cheeks, which only increases when Robbie says, "I try, but he doesn't make it easy."

"My Tom was like that," Maggie says with fond exasperation. "He'd get to working on one of his projects, and he'd forget to eat."

"What sort of projects?" James asks, as much to change the topic as out of courtesy.

"Did you happen to see the bird house outside?"

"The one that's a model of Elsdon Tower?" Robbie asks. "It's impressive."

Maggie explains that her husband had been a talented woodworker. "He wanted to be an architect, but university wasn't possible for him."

"Was it a financial problem?" James asks.

She shakes her head. "No, he would have found a way. Tom was... these days, they'd call it learning disabled. He had trouble reading. They said he was 'slow' and 'not academically inclined', and told him to find a trade where he could use his hands. He became a carpenter—and a good one, but his dream was to design and build. So he started making birdhouses."

He began with simple designs, then more elaborate ones. "He called them bird mansions," Maggie says, smiling at the memory. Tom started selling his creations, she explains. Sometimes he took custom orders, but only if he liked the design and the person. "Tom used to say, 'Never let someone else define your dreams.'"

"Very true. He sounds a wise man, your Tom," Robbie says.

"Oh, he was. Not always _clever_ , but wise," Maggie replies. "And kind. He wanted me to have my dream." She waves a hand to indicate the bookshop. "For years, Tom insisted on saving every penny. We were both working, but he took on extra jobs. He wouldn't buy a new van—said his old banger suited him well enough. I'm grateful that he lived to see this place open."

"How long has he been gone?" James asks tentatively.

"You needn't tiptoe," Maggie tells him. "It's been fifteen years now. The pain healed a long time ago. I still miss him, of course. Sometimes, I catch myself thinking, 'I wish I could tell Tom about this.'" She smiles. "This is one of those times."

"He knew about you, then?" Robbie's voice is steady.

"Oh, yes. He wasn't one of us, but he was a local lad, and he knew the tales and traditions. I couldn't love someone I had to hide myself from."

"Very true." The look Robbie gives him warms James like summer sunshine.

Maggie lifts the dragon teapot. "Another cuppa?"

Robbie shakes his head. "No, thanks. Actually... have you got a loo here?"

Maggie directs him to the staircase. "To the left, end of the hall." She and James sit in silence as the sounds of Robbie's footsteps mark his progress. The muffled _click_ of a distant door closing seems to break a spell. "He's real," she says, half to herself.

"Yes," James says drily. "You wouldn't doubt it if you'd ever heard him snoring."

Maggie laughs. "I must sound like a child talking about Father Christmas."

"Since Father Christmas just came down your chimney, metaphorically speaking, I'd say you're entitled to be a little flustered." His mouth twitches. "I'm told that I did an excellent impression of a goldfish when I found out. Though in my own defence, I spent most of my life _knowing_ that the Fae were myths and magic wasn't real."

"And now you're so used to it that it seems foolish to think you ever doubted?"

"Hardly. It was less than two months ago that I found out about Robbie's... heritage. I've known him for years. We work together—"

"Work!" Maggie exclaims, then gives him a rueful smile. "Of course. He lives Outside; he must have a job, and a house, and a car." She holds up a hand. "I won't pry, but _please_ don't tell me that he's an accountant. I think my heart would break."

"Not an accountant," James assures her. He wonders how she would react to the truth.

The sound of footsteps heralds Robbie's return. "You live here, Maggie?"

"I do, yes. This was originally a hinds' cottage. Farm workers," she says in an aside to James. "It's a listed building—only Grade II—but we had to get permission for every change."

"You've done a good job of it," Robbie says. He circles around the table, stopping in front of the desk. Hanging on the wall above it a framed poster. James recognises it as an illustration from Sabine Baring-Gould's 1872 book, _Ancient Tales of the Fae_ . He owned a paperback reprint of it as a child. The illustration shows a Fae warrior, tall and inhumanly handsome, standing in front of a farmer's cottage. The farmer himself is in the doorway, beckoning his unexpected guest to enter. Off to the side stands the farmer's wife, looking gobsmacked, while curious children peep out from behind her skirts. _Probably trying to remember if she has anything suitable in her larder to feed him._ Beneath the picture is the caption, "'Be thrice welcome beneath my roof,' the farmer said," Now James knows why Maggie's formal greeting sounded familiar.

"Is that your line-father, then? Cynefrid?" Robbie asks.

"Oh, no. My family's descended from Oswy Réod. My great-gran Eliza met him once, when she was a little girl. She passed away when I was just a baby, but she told the story to her son—my Grandpa Horace—and he told me. Oswy seemed like a giant to her. He was strangely dressed, and he wore a sword that was nearly as long as she was tall. She wasn't afraid of him, she said, because he had a kind smile, and ginger hair just like hers.

"There was a boy with him, who looked to be only a little older than her. She would have been, oh... five or six at the time. The boy had long, dark hair, and he was dressed in rich clothing with silver buttons and embroidered sleeves. Eliza might have been afraid of him, but his clothing was dusty, and his face was smudged. She walked up to the boy, and said, 'Who are you? Your face is dirty.'

"The boy replied, 'I am _not_ dirty, and my name is Hreodbeord _ætheling_.'"

It takes James several long seconds to realise that the last ten words are recited in unison by two voices. 

Robbie is grinning. "I'd forgotten that day. I was a proper brat. Got a good thrashing for it, too, when I got home."

Maggie is doing an excellent imitation of the gobsmacked farm-wife in the picture. " _You_ are Hreodbeord _ætheling_?"

"I was," Robbie corrects. "I'm not that little boy any longer. And not a brat, I hope."

"But still _ætheling_ ." James doesn't know the word, but he can make a reasonable guess. _Prince._ "I... I don't—What do I call you?"

"I hope you'll still call me Cousin Robbie," the Prince of the Fae says cheerfully. "Unless, of course, you're wanting to disown me on account of my being rude to Great-Gran Eliza."

Maggie lets out a choked sound that is halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Disown? No—I think we can let that go." She takes a deep breath. "Cousin Robbie."

"Good lass." Robbie smiles encouragingly at her. "Now, it seems to me that earlier you were wanting to ask me a question."

"I... yes. In the past fortnight, there've been two earthquakes. They weren't natural. I was outside during the first one, and I could See the magic rippling through the ground." Maggie pauses. "Can you tell me... will there be more?"

Robbie sighs. "I'm sorry you were frightened. There was trouble Underhill. It's been settled. There shouldn't be any more shaking."

"That's good to know."

James interjects, "Did you suffer any damage here?"

"Nothing serious," Maggie assures him.

"Show me," Robbie says. 

"Really, it's only—"

"Show me," he repeats. It's a command.

Maggie opens her mouth, then thinks better of whatever she was about to say. She excuses herself, and heads upstairs. 

Robbie paces the kitchen. "She said it was minor," James says quietly.

"That doesn't matter. Minor or not, it's my responsibility. If I hadn't ignored Alvaray, if I'd gone back sooner—"

"Whatever it is, you'll make it up to her." James hopes he's telling the truth. Some things can't be mended or replaced, and he's fairly certain that Maggie would not accept money.

She returns a minute later with a small plastic flower pot. It holds an orchid with pale pink blossoms that is looking rather worse for wear. One stalk is bent, some of the flowers have lost petals, and the leaves are starting to yellow. "It fell off the counter during the first quake. It was a gift from a friend. I repotted it, and hoped it would recover before she visited again." She sets the pot down on the table.

"Poor little thing," Robbie murmurs. He reaches out a finger and touches one of the leaves.

Maggie gasps. "So beautiful," she whispers.

James blinks at her, then at the plant, which seems unchanged. _Is she seeing magic?_ A moment later, his question is answered. Green spreads into the yellowed portion of the leaf, like a blush on a human face.

Robbie nods in satisfaction, and strokes another leaf. This time, the response is swifter. He heals another and another. One leaf makes him frown, and he pinches it off. Finally, he grasps the bent stem between thumb and forefinger, and slides his hand gently up and down. With each pass, the dent is less noticeable. Finally, he steps back. "That's as much as I can do. You'll have to wait for the petals to grow back. They don't do well when forced."

"Thank you so much," Maggie says. "This is... a gift twice over."

Robbie waves her thanks aside. "It's only right." He paces around the room, looking from side to side, as if looking for something. Searching for something else that needs mending? He pauses in front of the desk, and stares again at the poster, then turns back to Maggie. "Are you the property owner? Or just a tenant?"

She blinks. "I own the land and the building. Not much land, but... why?"

He straightens. "Margaret Elizabeth Dunn, daughter of Oswy Réod, I ask your consent to place a _dor_ _éadigende_ on this dwelling."

James vows silently that as soon as he gets back to Oxford, he's going to find a course in conversational Old English. Whatever a _dor_ _éadigende_ may be, the offer is a surprise to Maggie.

"I'm honoured," she says carefully. "What would you ask in return?"

Perhaps she's thinking about all of the old tales in which favours from the Fae come with an unexpected (and sometimes, unwelcome) price. Robbie looks startled, then throws back his head and laughs. "Canny lass!" he says approvingly. "I wouldn't have asked for anything, but I suppose we ought to follow tradition. Let's see...a new penny, the answer to one question of my choosing, and guest-right at your table until the next full moon."

Maggie walks out to the counter, opens the till, and returns with a shiny penny. She hands it to Robbie, who slips it into his pocket. "Be welcome to my table, Elder Cousin," she says. "Will you and your companion break bread with me?"

"We will," Robbie replies. They seat themselves at the table. "Just a token piece," he adds. "I've already had too much." After they've all had another sliver of lardy cake, Robbie nods. "Right. I'll hold off on the question for now."

"What are you going to do?" James asks. "What is a _dor_ _éadigende_?" He hopes that he hasn't mangled the pronunciation too badly.

Robbie looks at Maggie. "How would you translate it?"

"I've mostly heard it called 'door-blessing,'" she replies.

He frowns. "Nah, 'blessing' gives the wrong idea." He also rejects 'hearth-prosper', but reluctantly accepts 'house-warding' even though it sounds 'too Harry Potter'. "It's not a bloody forcefield," he grumbles.

"What does it do?" James thinks this is a simple, straightforward question, but it leads to 'explanations' that leaves him more confused than before. Maggie only knows several contradictory legends, and Robbie's understanding of magic is so instinctive that he often seems unable to put it into words.

All Robbie can say is that he'll mark the doorway, and that it will offer protection. When James asks if the marking will be done with runes, he gets a puzzled look. "Runes haven't got any inherent power. I'll need to put a bit of my magic into the door. It just has to be done with the proper intention." He pauses. "Some Fae use words to focus their magic. They speak their intention. I reckon that it might be possible to do it with writing. Not for me. I could write all over the door in the old speech, and it would only be graffiti."

The actual procedure ( _spell?_ ) is brief and anticlimactic. The start of it is delayed, first by a book delivery, and then by a pair of tourists looking for bird field guides. When the shop is finally clear, Maggie locks the door and hangs a hand-lettered sign on it: 'Back in 30 minutes'. Robbie rests his right hand on the door jamb. His brow furrows in concentration, but otherwise, he's motionless and silent.

Maggie watches closely, a faint smile on her lips. No doubt she's Seeing magic spread from Robbie's hand. Is it just going into the door, or all over the building? Flowing like a stream along the grain of the wood and the veins of the stone? Or are there patterns? James envisions intricate mandalas of light, pulsing and transforming like a kaleidoscope in constant motion. Not just magic— _Robbie's_ magic, part of his essence. For a moment, he feels a searing envy that this woman, this near-stranger, has an insight into Robbie that he can never share. _Get a grip_ , he chides himself. _Are you going to start resenting Lyn, too?_

And then Robbie straightens, stepping away from the door. "That's done," he announces in the satisfied tone of a DIYer who has just successfully repaired a leaking tap. "Mind, I'm not sure how much it will do. Should keep out harmful magic, and any Fae who happens by will see this place is under my protection. Beyond that..." He shrugs.

 _What Fae? He said the portals were closed for a hundred years._ Then he recalls Robbie's words on the night of his return: _'Time flows oddly Underhill.'_ A year passed for him in the Fae kingdom during a week for James in the mortal world. At that rate, Underhill could theoretically reopen in less than two years. And there might be others like Robbie living Outside—people of Fae heritage who have magic.

His speculations are interrupted by Maggie's quiet voice. "Thank you... my lord."

Robbie's brows shoot upwards, but he doesn't protest her use of the honorific He seems to be considering the words. Finally, he nods. "All right, lass. Just don't make a habit of it, eh?"

“Elder Cousin? Is... will Oswy Réod...?”

Robbie seems to understand the unasked question. “He is well, and would be proud to know you, but his duties as _hearthweru_ keep him Underhill.”

“He’s _hearth_ —so _that’s_ why you were with him!”

Robbie’s smile is rueful. “Like I said, I was a proper brat that day. When I heard where he was going, I asked to tag along, and he indulged me. He’s been a loyal friend. Helping a child of his line is the least I can do.” 

The awkward silence that follows is broken by a pounding on the door, and a loud voice calling Maggie's name. She unlocks the door and opens it to reveal a wiry, dark-haired man in his mid-forties. "Maggie, are you all right? Why are you closed in the middle of the day? I saw the sign, but your car was still in the back..." His grey eyes sweep over James and Robbie. "Who are you?"

"Hello, Phil. This is—" 

"Robbie Lewis. I'm an old friend of the family. We're on holiday, and decided to pop by for a visit."

Phil frowns at Robbie. "You look familiar. Have we met?"

"Not likely. I live down south. Haven't been back up here in ages," Robbie says cheerfully.

"Why does a friendly visit need a locked door?"

James jumps into the breach. "That would be my fault, I'm afraid. I suggested checking over Ms Dunn's security system."

Now the cold grey gaze is focused on him. "Why? So you can sell her a 'better' one for a few hundred quid?"

"Phil!" Maggie protests. "Don't be rude."

Phil is too busy glaring at James to notice Maggie's anxious glance at Robbie.

Robbie does notice. "It's all right, Maggie. He's just looking after you. There are a lot of dodgy people in this world, as James and I know very well." He pulls out his warrant card. A second later, James displays his own to a gobsmacked Phil.

Maggie is looking almost as wide-eyed as when she first saw Robbie in the shop. James smiles at her. _Not an accountant._ She introduces Phil as a neighbour and distant cousin.

After a few minutes of small talk to ease the tension, Robbie says they need to be going. He pulls his card from his wallet and hands it to Maggie, with instructions to call if she needs anything.

James drives a short distance down the road and pulls onto the first lay-by. "That was the most interesting visit I've had to a bookshop since an inebriated tourist tried to pick my pocket in Blackwell's."

"Not as annoying, I hope."

"No, but rather more confusing. I've got a few questions... my lord."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about Northumberland National Park I learned from the Internet. The historic sites mentioned, including the Drake Stone, are all real. 
> 
> And here's a recipe for [Northumberland lardy cake](https://www.countrylife.co.uk/food-drink/greatest-recipes-ever-northumberland-lardy-cake-19243).


	3. Chapter 3

Robbie grimaces. "I'm never going to hear the end of that, am I? All right, what do you want to know?"

 _Everything._ “What you did to the plant...” He’s not sure how to phrase the question. He knows Robbie’s magic extends to growing things; his garden at home is abundant. But this healing...

Robbie seems to understand. “I told you, when my magic was unbound, I was a bit rusty at first.”

James nods. He remembers the oddities of that first week.

“The magic was wonky until I got it under control, but I didn’t use it much until I went Underhill again. I got a lot of practice in the past year. I was always strong, but I've learned better control. More... subtlety. Mind, there are still many things I can’t do. Don’t expect me to turn the car invisible or make it fly, and for God’s sake, don’t get yourself shot again. You’re not a wilted flower, and I’m not a bloody miracle worker.” His voice rises at the end.

“Understood. No getting shot, no expecting miracles.” _Time to change the subject._ "What were you saying about Maggie's ancestor? He was hearth-something."

"Oswy was one of the _hearthweru_... the royal hearthguard."

And he was yours?"

"One of them, aye. He was my favourite." For a moment, Robbie seems lost in memory. "My father was gone by then, and my granddad—well, he gave me as much attention as he could. Being king is a job and a half. Being a good king—which he was—is more than that. Oswy indulged me, maybe too much, but he also taught me a lot about honour and self-control and being a man. The only time he ever lost his temper with me was the day I said I wished he could be my father."

"Politically unwise?" James suggests.

"It would have got him killed if anyone had heard me say that. Off with his head—or worse. He made me swear by the Yew that I'd never say it again."

There it is again. 'The Yew.' James knows he's missing some deeper meaning there, but he doesn't want to interrupt Robbie's tale.

"He's a good man. I made him captain of the _hearthweru_ when I came back Underhill, and I asked the new king and queen to keep him on." Robbie lets out a long, slow breath. "If I seemed more eager than you might expect to do favours for a woman I only met today, it's because of Oswy Réod. For his sake, I'll treat Maggie like my little sister."

James reflects that Robbie's 'little sister' is at least a decade older than his official age. "So, you won't offer a house-warding to every hill-kin you meet?" he jokes. 

"Not bloody likely. Certainly won't be offering one to Phil."

"I did wonder, when Maggie called him a cousin..."

"'Distant cousin' she said," Robbie corrects him. "Means he's of another line. He hasn't got anything like her gifts, that's for certain. Didn't suss out who I was."

"I think she was afraid you'd turn him into a newt," James confides.

It takes Robbie a moment to recognize the Monty Python reference, and then he roars with laughter. "It's a very good thing that I haven't got that power. If I could do that to everyone who annoyed me, Oxford would have to borrow a tank from Bristol Aquarium to hold all the newts."

James smiles as a slideshow of Oxford's Most Annoying begins to play in his mind, including a few of his co-workers. "What now? I don't think we've got enough time for the Wall today." They'd been planning a visit to Hadrian's Wall after the bookshop. "We could do one of the shorter walking routes," he suggests, and unfolds his map of the park to point out the most likely trails.

Robbie shakes his head. "Sorry, but I'm paggered. The _dor_ _éadigende_ took more out of me than I expected." He raises a hand to forestall any questions. "Don't fuss. I just need to take it easy for a little while. I'll be right as rain in the morning. And speaking of rain, there's some on the way. We can see the Wall tomorrow."

They do see the Wall—or portions of it—the next day, along with the ruins of a Roman fort and a temple of Mithras. One section is covered with ancient graffiti in Latin, and James is chuffed when Robbie asks him to translate. For his part, Robbie shares tales of the Roman occupation that he learned from his grandfather and other Fae.

Being here brings to mind the tale of Robbie’s personal history. His human mother came from a village just south of the Wall, and she met his father, a Fae lord, on a hill a few miles north of it. James doesn’t know the location or even the name of the village. He does wonder if there are any traces of Robbie’s family there. Is there a pub or a greengrocer’s with a sign indicating that a tannery once stood on the site? Is there a plaque in the church, 'sacred to the memory of Betsy Tanner of this parish' who disappeared in 1820? Are Betsy’s parents or her many siblings buried in the churchyard? Are their descendants living in the area? Robbie may have cousins of the purely human variety.

James wonders about these things. He wonders if Robbie wonders about these things. He doesn’t ask, and Robbie doesn’t say anything.

The holiday is wonderful. The long walks through the varied landscapes of the Park, sometimes deep in conversation, sometimes in easy silence, feel almost as intimate as the nights spent discovering each other's bodies. But each morning he awakens with the knowledge that this liminal period, this brief respite from reality, is one day closer to its end. ' _But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near.'_

If Robbie feels the same, he shows no sign of it. Then again, he must have a rather different relationship with Time. On a visit to a reconstructed limekiln, Robbie reminisces about seeing it in use. "I couldn't get very near to it. The heat was incredibly fierce."

"About 900 Celsius," James replies automatically, having read that detail in his guidebook. His mind is on another number: 1866, the year this particular kiln was last in operation. _I must seem almost like a child to him._

And then the week is nearly over. At lunch, James remarks, "Tomorrow is our last full day here. Was there anything particular you wanted to do?"

"There's a place I'd like to show you—a special place—but I'm not sure how to get there from Outside."

It takes James a few seconds to parse this. A place in the outside world that Robbie has only ever accessed via a portal from Underhill. "Do you know approximately where it is?"

"Oh, I know exactly where it is. Could even give you coordinates if I had an Ordnance Survey map handy. Thing is, it's nowhere near a road, and we haven't the time for a three-day hike." Robbie purses his lips. "I reckon we could ride..."

"Ride? On a horse?"

"No, on a dragon. Of course I mean on a horse, you muppet."

"And you can ride a horse?" The question slips out before he can think about it.

This earns him the 'did you leave your brains at home, Sergeant?' look, with both brows raised to their full height. "I was barely out of nappies the first time Granddad took me up on Grim, his stallion. Got a mare of my own when I was just a little older." He smiles wistfully. "Willa. That was one of the hardest parts about going to live Outside—leaving Willa behind. And you?"

It's James's turn to arch his brows. "Did you forget where I was raised?" He'd been capable of riding any horse in the Crevecoeur stables by the time he was nine or ten, except for Malik, his Lordship's prize Arabian, who was off limits in any case.

There's no lack of riding centres in the area. Once Robbie shows him on a map where their destination is, James thinks, it will only take a few phone calls to get their transportation sorted.

"Famous last words," he groans, after half a dozen conversations with polite but apologetic stable owners. There would be no trouble hiring a pair of horses for tomorrow _if_ they were interested in going for an escorted ride on designated trails. No one is willing to allow strangers to take two valuable animals into the wilderness, even with a sizeable advance deposit.

Robbie is trying to hide his disappointment. "That's all right."

James isn't ready to give up. "I wonder if we might have more luck dealing with someone who owns a few horses, rather than a riding centre."

"And do you happen to know someone hereabouts who owns horses?"

"No, but I know someone who probably does know..."

* * *

"Cottage Books, good afternoon," says the cheerful voice that answers the phone.

"Margaret Elizabeth Dunn, daughter of Oswy Réod, by the pact between us, I charge you to give a true and honest answer to my question, as agreed."

There's a brief pause. "What is your question, my lord?"

"Maggie, do you know anyone who's got a couple of horses to hire?"

* * *

It's clear that Longstone Farm is a working farm. The Georgian stone farmhouse with its tall chimneys is picturesque enough to be a luxury B&B, but the strictly utilitarian sheds and outbuildings scattered around it and the faint, pervasive odour of manure would make any AA inspector frown. The man who greets them at the front gate matches his surroundings. Ralph Chapple is sensibly dressed in jeans, a faded blue flannel work shirt, and high rubber boots. He greets them both with firm handshakes.

"Maggie Dunn says you're looking to hire two horses for a day's ride."

"That's right," Robbie confirms.

"And you're a hill-cousin from down south?"

"Aye. My mam was from near Hexham, and after she passed, I was raised by family in Newcastle. I live in Oxford now," Maggie had needed to tell at least part of the truth to get Chapple to agree.

"Well, Maggie says you're trustworthy, and I would trust Maggie with my life. But before I trust anyone with my horses, I want to see them ride."

"Of course," Robbie says, and James echoes his words.

Chapple leads them to the stable. "Oi, Luke!" He turns to the visitors. "My son Luke will help you find the right horses. I'll be in the office when you're ready."

Maggie told them to expect that. Luke Chapple may be young, but she's Seen a touch of magic in him that probably explains his strong affinity with animals. He's not as good with people, she'd said.

 _Maggie has a gift for understatement._ Luke is as sullen a teen as James has met. "You look like a city boy. A pretty city boy. Can you ride, city boy?" Luke challenges.

"Yes," James says calmly.

"Maybe you should take Arabella." Luke gestures at a bay mare in the first box stall.

"No, I don't think so." James gestures at her right foreleg. "She's spavined. Doesn't look like it's bad enough to cause pain, but I wouldn't want to take her on a long ride in the hills."

Luke stares at him. Without a word, he turns and walks down the line of stalls. He stops in front of a handsome chestnut mare with a white star on her face. Luke murmurs to the mare, then looks over his shoulder at James. "This is Estelle," he says, and his tone implies that he's introducing the dustman to a duchess.

James approaches. Estelle watches him, ears up and alert. He raises his hand for her to sniff. "Hello, lovely lady." Estelle nickers softly in reply, and offers her neck to be scratched.

Robbie comes forward. "And who have you got for me?"

Luke looks at him with the cool intensity of a judge studying a defendant in the dock. He walks to the far end of the stable, turns, then walks back, peering at each horse. He repeats this twice, in complete silence, frowning all the while. It's like a scene from a pantomime. James half-expects a mustachioed villain to pop up in one of the stalls as soon as Luke's back is turned.

Finally, Luke pauses in front of a powerful grey gelding. His frown deepens, and he glances back at Robbie. "You can take Eodur."

"Aye? The name suits him."

"He's special. You need to treat him right," the teen insists.

"I will do," Robbie replies. "Do you need my word on it?"

"You can give it to my dad," Luke says with a barely-concealed smirk. "I'll get these two saddled."

As promised, Ralph Chapple is in his "office," a small room in the front corner of the stable. It's furnished with an old IKEA desk that's been painted dark blue, metal folding chairs, and a battered filing cabinet. "All set? Who did Luke pick for you?"

James points first at himself and then at Robbie. "Estelle. Eodur."

Ralph nods. "Good choices. Luke's got a gift with horses. My dad had it, too." He hands them each a clipboard with a generic rental agreement.

There's a biro attached to the clipboard, but James reaches inside his pocket and pulls out his favourite fountain pen. He writes his name and home address at the top of the form. At the end, there's a waiver of liability. It's the standard thing: several paragraphs of legalese which amount to 'If I fall off the horse and break my neck, it's my own damn fault'. He signs on the dotted line, and hands it back to Ralph. Robbie does the same.

Ralph copies some information from the forms into an old-fashioned leather-bound ledger. "Date of birth?"

"26 May, 1978," James replies. Robbie rattles off the date that's on all of his official documents.

Ralph raises his head from the ledger. "I told you that Luke has my dad's gift with horses," he says conversationally. "It skipped over me. But my mam had a gift of her own, and I got that one."

"And what is that?"

"I always know when someone is telling me a lie. Now, if this is just a bit of foolish vanity, no harm done. I'm sure your young friend already knows that you're no spring chicken."

 _You have_ no _idea._ James looks at Robbie. "I already know, and who is he going to tell?" _Who would believe him?_

Robbie pulls a face. "I suppose you're right." He turns back to Chapple. "My actual birth date is 25 March... 1821."

James watches for the reaction. Will it be amazement? Disbelief? Instead, what he sees is fear.

Just then, the office door opens, and Luke steps in. "You finished with the paperwork, Dad? I've got them saddled and—"

"Out! Luke, get out!" Ralph snaps.

 _This is not good_. There’s an edge of panic in Ralph’s voice, and James knows all too well that panic can cause otherwise sensible people to do stupid things. 

"Dad, what's wrong? Are they giving you trouble?" Luke sounds puzzled. "The horses like them..."

The protective father in Ralph restores his self-control. "I'm all right, Luke. You take the horses to the lower paddock, and we'll meet you there. Okay?" 

The boy glances from his father to the two men sitting quietly in front of the desk. "Okay."

Once Luke is out the door, Ralph lets out a long, shuddering breath. He looks at Robbie. "What do you want from me?"

"I want to hire two horses for a day's ride," Robbie says. "Can't you hear the truth in that?"

"I don't know how much I can trust my gift to work on a Fae. Your magic is stronger than mine."

James fingers the mobile in his pocket. If he calls Maggie Dunn, can she persuade Ralph that his alarming Fae visitor will not curse his son, steal his horses, or call down lightning to destroy his stable?

The alarming Fae visitor scowls. “Oh, for the love of—“ He stops, takes a deep breath, and raises his right hand. “Ralph Chapple, I give you my word that I mean no harm to you and yours. This I swear by my name... and by the Yew.” 

"The Yew..." Ralph says faintly, looking as though an actual tree has fallen on him.

"Robbie, why don't you go to the car and get our stuff out of the boot?" James gives his partner a look. Robbie nods. He rises, lays a hand on James's shoulder, then exits the room without a word.

The quiet click of the door closing behind Robbie seems to shake Ralph out of his daze. "He's Fae."

"Yes."

"And he's of the Yew. Dear God! Does Maggie know? What am I saying—or course she does. The woman can See magic. He must—" Ralph seems to be searching for words.

"She says he shines as bright as Coquet Lighthouse," James says helpfully.

"I'll bet he does." Ralph looks him up and down. "And that doesn't terrify you?"

"No. Should it?"

"You're a southerner, so you won't know the tales..."

"I've read—"

"I'm not talking about stories in books that have been prettied up by poets or analysed by professors. I mean the real tales that the hill-cousins have passed down through the generations." Ralph gets up and begins to pace the room. "I know the Fae aren't monsters. They're people, like us. The tales say they can be kind, even generous. But they're very old and very powerful, and they don't necessarily give a damn about humans who aren't their kin or under their protection." 

"He's only half-Fae. And he's been living Outside for a long time—"

"Doesn't matter. In all the ways that count, he's Fae. He's got strong magic. He's near two hundred years old, and I'll wager he's spent longer living Underhill than Outside." He fixes James with a piercing gaze. "He's good to you? Treats you well?"

James nods, not quite trusting himself to speak. Ralph makes it sound as though he's a stray dog that Robbie has adopted.

Ralph shakes his head. "Maggie is a dear old hen... but she's a romantic. She sees the beauty of magic, and not the danger. I reckon your lord dealt kindly with her, or she wouldn't have sent him to me."

"He's not my lord," James protests.

"Of course he is, whether you like to use the word or not. I don't know if he's made it a formal _hyld_ -bond, but obviously he's claimed you as his. That keeps you safe. It would stain his honour to harm you. Me, I haven't got any such protection—or didn't, until he made that vow."

"How do you know he was being truthful about that, when you didn't believe him before?"

"No Fae will break a vow sworn on the Yew, especially a Fae who is _of_ the Yew."

He has to ask. "What exactly is the Yew?"

Ralph Chapple stares at him for one long moment, and then breaks into laughter. When he finally regains control, his only reply is, "Ask your lord."

* * *

On the way to the lower paddock, they meet Robbie, returning from the car with their knapsacks. "All right, then?" His sharp eyes scan James.

"Yeah." James accepts his knapsack. "Thanks."

Robbie nods at Ralph. "Mr Chapple." It's his calm, bland, 'don't-spook-the-witness' voice.

He gets a nod in return. "Mr Lewis."

Luke is waiting for them with the horses. James rides Estelle around the paddock for a minute, as much to acquaint himself with her as to demonstrate his competence. She's a sweet-tempered horse with an easy gait.

He dismounts, and leans against the fence, watching Robbie with interest. Robbie mounts smoothly, and the gelding explodes into motion. 

Some horse-and-rider pairs are like dancers, graceful and elegant. Robbie and Eodur are not dancers. It takes James a minute to decide what they remind him of. Something at university... Shakespeare! The Amateur Dramatic Club had put on a production of _King Lear_ , and the director decided to do something different with the fight scenes. Instead of the actors fencing with slender rapiers and epees, he'd chosen to have them wield heavy (replica) short swords, more appropriate to Dark Ages Britain. James had been invited to one of the technical rehearsals. The stage combat choreography had been impressive. The actors were in costume but not in character, and they bantered with each other as they 'fought'. The main impression was of controlled power and passion; two warriors assessing each other’s prowess, even as they revelled in the joy of the battle.

 _That_ is Robbie and Eodur: two joyful warriors. James can see how the gelding challenges his rider. It’s not a serious attempt to unseat Robbie, but a less-skilled rider might be on the ground by now, rubbing a sore bum. Robbie holds the reins loosely and keeps control of the horse with his legs and his voice. James can’t make out the words at this distance, and suspects that he wouldn’t understand them, in any case.

Ralph smiles approvingly. “They’re a good match,” he says to his son.

James remembers Robbie commenting on the horse’s name. “What does his name mean?”

“Eodur? It’s Old English for ‘Prince’”.

_A good match, indeed._

The rest of the formalities don't take long. Mr Lewis opens his wallet and courteously offers the agreed-upon fee. Mr Chapple courteously accepts it. It's all very civilised.

And, then _finally_ they're on their way. At first, they backtrack along the verge of the paved road that leads to the farm. They pass the standing stone that gives Longstone Farm its name. It's slightly taller than James and about a metre across, with a few small indentations that might be carvings or just the result of natural weathering. It brings to mind another roadside remnant of Neolithic Britain that James has seen only in photos: the Standing Stone of Matfen, where a young village girl once rested on a journey that would transform her life beyond imagining.

As he rides by the monolith, James wonders if his journey today will somehow change him, too.

* * *

"What did Chapple have to say after I left? Did he warn you against me?"

"No. He seemed to think it was too late for that. He did inquire if you treat me kindly," James replies. _He said you were my lord, whether you used the word or not._

"I hope you gave me a good report." Robbie jokes.

"I think your oath convinced him more than anything I could say. He told me that no Fae would break a vow sworn on the Yew.'"

"That's true."

"So, I need to ask: what is the Yew, other than a rune and a piece of jewelry?" There's a long moment in which the only sounds are the clip clop of the horses' hooves, and distant birdsong. "If it's a secret..."

“No, not a secret. Not from you, any road. It’s hard to explain.” Robbie looks around. “There’s a place, not far, by a stream. We can talk while the horses have a drink and a rest.”

Once the horses have been seen to, Robbie settles down on a sun-warmed boulder. James sits beside him. "You have to understand that I was very young when Granddad explained this to me, and it was all in the old speech. Anything to do with magic and the like, he used the old speech. He told me that the Yew is the World-Tree. It's the Tree of Life, and the source of magic."

As Robbie continues his halting explanation, James asks questions. Is the Yew a symbol? A metaphysical description of another reality? An actual, physical tree? The answer to most of them is "I don't know." James tries to imagine his seven-year-old self trying to give a coherent account of the Doctrine of the Incarnation.

"And what's 'of the Yew'?

"Erm... did I ever tell you about kindreds?"

James racks his memory. "You said something about them being like noble families?" It was a little over a month ago when Robbie first explained about his heritage, but feels like the distant past.

"Yes and no. A kindred is a group within a family. The Fae in a kindred are the ones with the strongest magic. They're called 'The Elder Children of the Yew'. And only a Fae who is 'of the Yew' can be King or Queen."

A meritocracy within a hereditary nobility? James supposes that there are worse models of government in the human world. "And that's why—" He gestures at the front of Robbie's shirt, and the amber yew-rune hanging beneath it.

Robbie pulls it out. "Granddad gave it to me when my magic first showed itself. I had to leave it behind when I went to live Outside, but they kept it for me." He traces the lines of the rune with a finger. He stands up. "We should be going. I'd like to get there before noon."

James stands. "Incidentally, where _are_ we going? You never said, other than 'a special place.'"

Robbie murmurs a phrase in Old English. "The name translates as 'The Vale in the Heart of the Hills'. It's a little valley, very private and secluded. Among other things, it's used for ceremonies that have to be done under the open sky." He smiles. "And it's beautiful, and I wanted... well, I wanted you to see it."

 _What aren't you saying?_ James wonders, and then a wild hope appears in his heart. _He wants to do a bonding ritual, to claim me formally._ "Let's get moving," he says with a calmness he doesn't feel, while joy and terror battle inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James's thought about "Time's wingèd chariot" is a line from Andrew Marvell's poem, [To His Coy Mistress](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44688/to-his-coy-mistress).


	4. Chapter 4

As the trail begins to climb into the hills, it narrows, and they have to ride single-file. Robbie takes the lead. Conversation is no longer possible, except for the occasional shouted question and response. The sun is higher in the cloudless sky, and the day promises to be almost summerlike. Estelle, following behind her stablemate, doesn't need much guidance from her rider. Between the warmth of the sun and the gentle rhythm of the horse's motion, James falls into a pleasant lethargy. His mind begins to drift. What will the bonding be like? What form will the ritual take?

Perhaps an invocation of the elements? He could imagine Robbie daubing runes on his skin with mud, then laving them away with water from a spring-fed pond. Air could be Robbie's soft breath ghosting up and down his body, or even a conjured breeze. Fire... that gives him pause. Surely Robbie wouldn't...?  _ The sun is fire _ , he reminds himself. He might stand naked in the sunlight while Robbie chants words of binding in the old speech.

_ You're being ridiculous _ . This absurd scenario belongs in one of those rubbishy Fae romance novels. He's been told—has seen for himself—what a Fae ritual consists of: a few formal words of agreement, followed by a flood of magic driven by intent and will. Robbie will ask if James consents to belong to him. And then... will James feel the magic as Robbie enters him? Will he finally share in that most ancient and unknowable aspect of his lover?

"James? Are you all right?" From the worried tone of Robbie's voice, it's not the first time he's asked.

_ Oh, God! _ James feels like a schoolboy caught wanking in the showers. "F-fine," he stutters.

Robbie frowns at him. "You're as red as a beetroot. I hope you're not getting sunstroke. Maybe we should stop for a rest."

"No, no need for that. I'm fine." James takes out his water bottle and takes a long draught, then splashes some on his face. "Let's keep going."

Robbie gives him a dubious look, but doesn't argue the point.

Half an hour later, the trail widens again, and James urges Estelle to pull up beside Eodur.

"We're getting close," Robbie says. "In fact, I think... there!" He points triumphantly at a round boulder.

James eyes it. "It's a rock. A large rock."

"Not just any rock. That is the  _ Namenastán _ —the Name-Stone. Come see." He dismounts and jogs over to the boulder, eager as a child on Christmas morning.

James follows. The boulder is covered with writing: carven into the stone; drawn with thin white lines that look like chalk, but don't rub away when touched; and 'painted' with gray-green lichen. Most of the names are written in runes, but there are some that seem to be in Latin letters, or a combination.

"It's a tradition to write your name on the  _ Namenastán _ the first time you go to the Vale," Robbie explains. He stoops down, studying a section about a metre above the ground. "There!"

James has to kneel down to see the spot where Robbie is pointing. There are three slightly crooked letters: ROB, followed by the Yew-rune. He clucks his tongue in mock disapproval. "You did that? Vandalism of National Park property."

"Wasn't a park then," Robbie says. "Must've been Crown lands, but I doubt that Silly Billy would have cared about a rock in the middle of the wilderness."

It takes James a moment to identify the nickname: King William IV, who was succeeded by his niece, Victoria. "Right..." He studies the Name-Stone: three metres high, and covered with inscriptions. "Still, over the years... I'm surprised it hasn't been mentioned in any of the histories or guidebooks."

Robbie shakes his head. "No one who shouldn't will see anything other than a big rock with moss on it."

" _ I _ can see it," James says.

"Well, you're with me, aren't you?" Robbie has moved on to another section of the stone. "There's Oswy Réod," he says, smiling. "Up here, is my father." He points to a trio of runes, and then to a crude X beside them. "And my mam."

James starts to ask why an X, but stops himself in time. Betsy Tanner was born to an over-large, impoverished family in a rural village in the early years of the 19th century. It would have been extraordinary if she was  _ not _ illiterate. "Erm... and where is your grandfather's name?"

"On the top, of course."

James looks up. The boulder is more than twice his height, and the relatively smooth surface doesn't have any convenient toe-holds. "He must have been very agile."

"Nah. He made the rock turn over." Robbie's tone is matter-of-fact, and there's no trace of humour on his face.

_ It must weigh twenty tonnes! _ James's mind begins to reject the idea, but then he remembers the earthquake that knocked him off his feet, the night of Robbie's return. And Ralph Chapple's voice whispers:  _ "The Fae are very old and very powerful... doesn't that terrify you?" _

He thinks of the night he discovered Robbie's magic. How would he have reacted, seeing that wild, inexplicable whirlwind, if the man standing at its centre had been a stranger? Would he have been terrified? Probably so, but it's a moot point. It  _ was _ Robbie there in Wytham Wood. Robbie, who he trusts more than anyone else he has ever known. No, if he hesitates in going ahead with this bond, it won't be because Robbie is a Fae, old and powerful.

It would help if he knew exactly what was involved in a bond. Is it a vow? An oral contract? Does the ritual create some kind of magical connection between them? Once made, can it be broken? Some of the legends are disturbing. Are they true? He can't believe that Robbie wants a lovesick thrall, with no free will.

_ What do  _ I  _ want? _ It's a difficult question, and requires him to clear away the haze of fantasies and fears fogging his mind.  _ I want to know that Robbie needs me. I want him to claim me, formally. _ Ralph says that Robbie  _ has _ claimed him, and is his lord. James has mixed feelings about that title. He's had to use it for men who were wholly undeserving of the honour. Robbie would never break faith with those who trusted him, or harm those he ought to protect. James doesn't know if he wants to call Robbie 'my lord,' but he'd like to have the right to do so. And it seems that soon, he may be granted that right.

A few minutes later, they're riding into what Robbie calls the Antechamber. It's not quite a valley—more of a shallow bowl edged with conifer trees. At the far end, a rock formation rises out of the hillside, looking almost like the ramparts of a castle.

"The Gate of the Vale," Robbie says. "We'll leave the horses here."

The Gate is a narrow tunnel through the rocks: less than a metre across and two and a half high. It's not a natural fissure, and must have been excavated, though James doubts that the Fae used anything as mundane as pick and shovel. People who can make a huge boulder roll over like an obedient dog surely have other ways of drilling through a cliff. The tunnel curves, disappearing into darkness, so James can't see how far it extends or what's on the other side. Robbie indicates the opening with a smile and a nod. He looks at James expectantly, as if to say, 'after you'.

With more confidence than he feels, James strides into the Gate. After the first few metres, he pauses to take stock of his surroundings. It's cool inside the tunnel, and dark, though not as dark as he feared. Ambient sunlight filters in from outside, allowing him to see that the pathway ahead is reasonably flat and even. He continues on, fingers brushing the stone walls on either side of him. How many Fae have passed through here over the centuries? Did they walk, like James, silent and alone in the shadows? He envisions a candlelight procession of robed figures, voices raised in song. Or perhaps chatter and laughter, as they anticipate a joyous ceremony. How old was Robbie when he first walked though this place? Was he dressed in the finery that Maggie's gran had described, with "silver buttons and embroidered sleeves"? Surely the amber sigil of his rank would have been hanging from his neck for all to see.

He's gone about ten metres when he realises that there are no footsteps behind him. He looks over his shoulder. Robbie is still standing in the sunlight, a few feet outside the entrance of the Gate. Perhaps there's a rule that people walk through the tunnel one at a time. That seems inefficient for ceremonies involving more than a handful of Fae. Perhaps it's only a custom for the key participants in a ritual _. _

There are tales in all cultures about magical or sacred places that present challenges to would-be visitors. Riddles to be answered, obstacles to be overcome, guardians to be battled. James forces himself to move forward despite a sudden tightness in his throat. If there was a real danger ahead, Robbie would warn him.  _ Unless an ordeal is part of the ritual _ . 

He halts abruptly as he comes to a sharp curve in the tunnel. He's been walking through increasingly dim shadows, but what lies before him is an inky darkness so thick as to be almost tangible. What now? He's got a miniature torch on his keyring, but it somehow feels wrong to use it.  _ I wish I knew what the rules are.  _ After a moment's thought, he raises his left arm so that his hand is above and slightly in front of his head. He leaves his right hand resting lightly against the wall, and takes a step forward. The surface beneath his feet is still fairly even; no worse than most cobblestone streets.

He feels more than a little foolish, shuffling along with one hand pawing at empty air. Still, better foolish than concussed _. _ Just because the tunnel's ceiling has been high above his head so far is no guarantee that it won't be lower in other places. There might be ledges protruding from the side walls, or stalactites hanging down.  _ And it's not as though anyone can see me. _

Even as the thought enters his mind, another follows:  _ Are you sure about that? _

_ Robbie and I are the only people here _ .

_ But there might be... things _ . The Fae are real. Magic is real. What else might there be, in the hidden places of the world? 

All his senses are straining to detect any hint of danger. The darkness is so absolute that he literally can't see the hand in front of his face. Touch and smell tell him what he already knows: he's surrounded by bare stone. Hearing... he halts, and lets his arms fall to his sides. It's silent here, a stillness that he's never known. On the most isolated walking trails one can hear birdsong, a squirrel or rabbit rustling in the underbrush, or the whine of insects. Inside a building, be it a library after hours or the sub-basement of a deserted storage facility, there are faint murmurs from electrical and mechanical systems. Even an abandoned house produces creaks and groans from sagging joints. Here, there is only the sound of his own breathing, which is somehow louder than it should be.

James holds his breath, and the sound continues. It's a low susurration, like a murmuring voice without distinguishable words. He swivels his head from side to side. What is it? Where is it? 

_ It's ahead of me. _ That eerie sound is coming from the direction of the Vale. He freezes. Should he wait here for a little while or continue onwards? He doesn't even consider returning to the Antechamber. The only thing more pitiful than cowering like a rabbit that hears a hawk would be to run back to Robbie.

James has no illusions about being a hero, and no desire to imitate Alan “Action Man” Peterson. He just does his job, which sometimes requires going into hazardous situations. Those, at least, are known dangers, things his mortal mind can comprehend. Right now, he thinks he’d rather chase an armed murderer than to walk towards whatever lies ahead in the darkness of a Fae-wrought tunnel steeped in ancient magic.

_ Just get moving _ , he thinks, but can’t quite make himself obey. Robbie will be wondering what's taking him so long. He recalls the smile his lover gave him as he entered the Gate.  _ He thought I could do it. _ If this is a test of some kind, what will be the consequence of failure? Will Robbie be unwilling—or unable to bond with him?

He lifts his left hand again, holding it protectively in front of his head and takes one step, then another. He hears the sound again. It's louder now, like a moan. James continues walking, his upraised hand curling into a defiant fist. Whatever's coming, he'll meet it while moving forward.

A gust of air strikes his face.  _ It's breathing on me! _ He stops, flails wildly with both arms, and strikes... nothing. A moment later, he realises that the air carries the scent of green and growing things, of leaves and sun-warmed earth.  _ Wind _ . The "breath" is just wind blowing from the outside, and the ominous mutters and moans he's heard are the noises that it makes as it passes through the tunnel. 

For the first time since he stepped into the Gate of the Vale, he's glad that Robbie didn't accompany him. Obviously, there was no test, no ordeal. He's suddenly angry—at himself for being such a fool, and at Robbie for not warning him.  _ I need to get out of here. _ He returns his hands to their previous positions, and strides down the passageway. 

Twice, he almost stumbles, but doesn't slow down. After what is probably just a few minutes, but feels longer, the darkness ahead seems less solid. He rounds a curve, and there are patches of grey in the blackness. A little further on, he's walking through shadows, and then through dim, indirect sunlight. At that point, despite his impatience, he pauses to let his eyes adjust. No sense in hurrying outside, only to be blinded by the sudden brightness.

And then he is out in the open, with the sun shining on his head.  _ Not quite in the open... _ The area just beyond the tunnel is a sort of vestibule, about five metres wide, marked by a semicircle of standing stones. Each one is as wide as a large man, and half again as tall. They are so close together that looking through the narrow gaps between them provides only a general impression of grass and trees. The semicircle doesn't extend all the way to the cliff wall. There's enough space on either side for a person to walk through. James's mind returns to his earlier fantasy of a Fae processional through the tunnel. At this point, he imagines, the participants would exit, alternating sides.

James frowns. Should he wait here or go out into the Vale? And does the direction matter? He's saved from his indecision by the sound of rapid footsteps.

"You're here," Robbie says, smiling. He seems pleased.

"It's not as though I could lose my way, or linger to admire the sights," James replies. "I could have done without the soundtrack," he adds sourly.

Robbie frowns. "Soundtrack? Oh—the wind. I forgot, it does that sometimes."

So his passage through the Gate was  _ not _ intended as an ordeal. Then why did he have to go through alone? Just custom... or the prelude to a ritual?

"Are you ready to see the Vale?"

"Which way?"

Robbie looks surprised. " _ Swithra _ . Erm... to the right, always." And he walks through the gap on the right.

_ Whither thou goest _ . James takes a deep breath, and follows Robbie into the unknown.

He's not sure what he expected. Natural beauty, of course, whether wild or tamed. Perhaps lush vegetation, soaring trees, and a riot of flowers.  _ Why not bluebirds and butterflies, like a bloody SpringFresh Washing Powder advert? _ he chides himself.

"What do you think?" Robbie is watching him closely, waiting for his reaction.

For one horrible moment, James is afraid that he's going to have to lie to Robbie, because he can't see anything special about the Vale. It's a scenic little valley, enclosed by cliffs on all sides. The center is like a meadow, with long grass and some wildflowers. Small trees—mostly pines and birches—grow in clusters along the edges. A narrow stream cuts across the lower half of the Vale, widening into a pool before flowing through some unseen crevice in the rocks. There is nothing here that he hasn't seen in one form or another on their ride up or in their other wanderings through the Park.

He starts to make a random remark about how peaceful it is, when a breeze blows across the Vale. He inhales, and it's as though he is breathing for the first time in his life.  _ 'The air breathes upon us here most sweetly,'  _ The breeze is cool and fresh, carrying the faint scent of sun-warmed earth, pine needles, and grass.  _ The grass! _ How has he never noticed how many shades of green are in a field of grass?

A soft chuckle pulls him out of his reverie. "Cat got your tongue? It's not like you to be without an opinion."

"I'm not entirely sure what I'm seeing," James confesses. "It's beautiful, but, I think there must be magic at work—" He looks inquiringly at Robbie, and gets a confirming nod. "Is it a glamour?"

Robbie's eyebrows shoot upwards. "Just the opposite. You're seeing the reality of the Vale. The magic here is so old and strong that it compels your attention. Makes you notice your surroundings. I suppose it can be a bit distracting."

James huffs out a laugh. "A bit. It doesn't affect you?"

"You get used to it."

James nods. Robbie must have come here often in the thirteen or fourteen decades he spent Underhill.

"Any road, this isn't all that different to how I usually see the world. And I think you'll find, when you leave here, that it will be the same for you."

"But, I'm not—I don't—" James stammers. He hasn't got a drop of Fae blood in him.

Robbie shakes his head. "It's not magic, not the Sight. It's just noticing the world around you, which most people don't do. Once someone starts noticing, they don't generally stop."

_ Epiphany _ , James thinks.  _ A minor epiphany _ , he corrects. He's not Archimedes or Saul on the Damascus Road. But perhaps this new insight will better prepare him for what is to come? He smiles at Robbie. "Is there anything I should do? To get ready?"

Robbie seems amused. "Impatient, are you? You can spread this out." He hands James a rolled-up navy-blue wool blanket. "I'd suggest on that mossy patch, there, if you don't want bruises on your arse from all the stones."

_ So it  _ will _ be a ritual. _ James holds the blanket by one end and shakes it out, letting it settle on the soft grass. He tugs on the edges, pulling them straight. "Anything else?"

"Just a moment..." Robbie is rummaging through the knapsacks. "Where'd I put it? Aha!" Triumphantly, he pulls out a knife, and holds it out, hilt first. "You can slice the bread."

James takes the knife, automatically. "Bread?" he echoes. Well, the sharing of bread is part of ceremonies in many cultures. Even a humble farmhouse loaf, such as the one that Robbie is unwrapping, can be a ritual food.

More items emerge from Robbie's knapsack. He'd gone shopping for supplies while James acquired a pair of riding boots The foodstuffs that are laid out on the blanket are clearly meant for a tasty and thoroughly mundane picnic lunch, including a few bottles of Newcastle Brown, safely wrapped in a tea towel.

_ You knew there would be lunch. It doesn't mean that there won't be a ritual later. _ He'd just been sure that Robbie's desire to arrive before noon had some magical significance. He glances at his watch. It's 11:57. There won't be any ceremony at the stroke of noon today...  _ I am a bloody idiot! _ They're currently on British Summer Time. Astronomical noon won't occur for another hour yet. With a lighter heart, he looks over the cheeses in their wrappings of greaseproof paper. "Is that one Croquetdale?"

Over lunch, Robbie reminisces about his childhood, and some of the mischief he got up to. James listens carefully, laughs in appropriate places, and asks occasional questions, but part of his attention is constantly focused on the time, and what he hopes will be happening soon.

Naturally, Robbie catches him looking at his watch. "Have you got an appointment somewhere you didn't mention?"

"No... I was just thinking... it's almost noon—by the sun, I mean."

Robbie glances skyward, squinting. "Aye. So it is. We've been very lucky in the weather today." He seems indifferent to the time and the sun's position in the sky.

_ Stop deluding yourself. It's not going to happen _ — _ not at noon, not later. Just enjoy the day for what it is _ : _ a visit to a special place that's important to Robbie. A place very few people _ — _ very few humans—have ever seen _ . He forces his attention back to Robbie.

"My mam loved the sun. Mind, she was happy Underhill, but she enjoyed coming Outside to see the sky. My father called her  _ Dægcandel _ , as a pet name. It means 'day-candle', and it's a poetic word for the sun. He said that her smile lit up Underhill like the sun."

"He must have loved her very much."

"He did." Robbie looks around the Vale, and smiles. "This is where he brought her when he proposed."

That is a more significant statement than it might seem. It's not surprising that a Fae might seduce a pretty village girl. The existence of  _ hillcynn _ proves that such dalliances happened fairly often. But marriage? When the Fae in question was 'of the Yew'? That would have been rare, possibly scandalous, no matter what the readers of rubbish like  _ Finding Her Fae _ might believe. 'Happily ever after' is not guaranteed with such an unequal pairing.

_ And they didn't get a fairy-tale ending _ , James muses. Robbie's father had vanished in the mysterious Deeps of Underhill. If he had returned safely, would their love have survived their differences? Fae prince and human commoner... He reminds himself that Robbie and Val had a very happy marriage.  _ Not the same thing. He was nearly human then.  _ Robbie's magic was bound, inaccessible. He hadn't lived Underhill for many years. He and Val were, if not the same age, of the same era, and had much in common.

By contrast, he and Robbie have very little in common in the human world, other than work, sex, and a fondness for crap telly and good beer. And there's nothing that connects him to Robbie's Fae side. He isn't  _ hillcynn _ , wasn't raised with the lore and traditions, and possesses no magical gifts. What does he have to offer a royal Fae with power over earth and air?

James had hoped that a bond would forge a connection between his Fae lover and his all-too-human self. If he could offer Robbie his devotion in a formal and lasting way...  _ It's not going to happen. Not today _ , he adds, in an effort to remain optimistic. But if not today, in this place where magic pervades the very rocks and trees, then when?

"James?" Judging from the look on Robbie's face, it's not the first time he's tried to get James's attention. "You all right?"

"Sorry, I was woolgathering." The words burst out of him before he has a chance to consider them. "I was thinking about something that Ralph Chapple said."

"Oh?" Robbie's voice is mild, but there's a hint of wariness in his face.

_ He said that you'd claimed me _ . "He wondered if you'd made a bond between us. I think he called it a  _ hyld _ -bond?"

Those blue-green eyes turn as cold and stormy as the North Sea. "I have not. And I never would."

The words hit James almost like a physical blow. His first reaction is to leave. If they were back in Oxford, he'd take off in his car, or go for a run. But here? He's hardly going to leap onto Estelle's back and gallop away, like some character from a gothic novel.

"James? What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Pull the other one," Robbie says dryly. Then, more seriously, "It's not you that's got me angry. I suppose Chapple was speaking out of ignorance, and didn't mean any insult..."

_ Insult?  _ "Would it be so dreadful to be bonded to me?" 

"No, but you've got things backwards. It would be  _ you _ bonded to me." Robbie frowns. "Did Chapple actually explain what a  _ hyldbeand _ is?"

"Only that he thought you'd claimed me as... as yours, and that a  _ hyld _ -bond would formalise it."

"Oh, it would do that," Robbie says dryly. "A  _ hyldbeand _ is a bond of protection. Like fealty. You’d have to swear obedience and service—“

“I can do that. Sir.”

“And it’s permanent.”

“I want it.”

“I don’t.” The words are said quietly, even gently, but with the finality of a door clicking shut. “Look, it’s difficult enough that you’re my sergeant, but that’s not something that will last. You’ll get promoted, or I’ll retire. But a  _ hyldbeand _ would last forever.”

"Are you afraid I'd change my mind?" James challenges. "Or that you would?"

"No! But that's not the point. This isn't what I want for us."

"What about what  _ I _ want?" James feels the anger and frustration bubbling up. Best to step away before he says something unforgivable. "Never mind. I'm just going to go outside—" he gestures in the vague direction of the Antechamber. "—and have a smoke." He strides towards the Gate.

"Damn it, James! Don't walk out on me when I'm trying to talk to you!"

_ We can talk when we've both cooled down.  _ James keeps walking. He's about twenty metres from the semicircle of standing stones in front of the Gate when the ground on either side begins to ripple and writhe.  _ Another earthquake? _ But the effect seems to be limited to that area. Then, with a loud rumble, two tall stones emerge from the earth, completely filling the gaps and blocking off the Gate. 

_ Bloody hell! He's locked me in. _


	5. Chapter 5

James half-welcomes the anger that rises in him—it burns, but it distracts him from the sting of rejection. He whirls around. “Well, _that’s_ a mature and rational reaction.”

"Says the man running away to sulk."

James looks pointedly over his shoulder at the stones blocking his way. He turns back to Robbie. "It seems that isn't an option any longer, so what now, my lord?"

"I told you not to call me that!"

"Then don't act like that!" He draws in a deep breath. "You can't make unilateral decisions about our relationship and then pretend that we're equals. If you don't want a bond, if you don't want to claim me—"

Robbie snaps, "I don't want to claim you unless you claim me, too."

He feels lost, disoriented. "You don't... wait, what?"

"I've bollocksed this up, good and proper," Robbie mutters. "I thought we'd have a nice picnic, relax for a bit, and then talk about, well, us."

"What about us?"

"What I want—what I hope you want—is what my parents had."

James stares. "Are you... are you asking me to marry you?"

Robbie frowns. "Marry? You thought they were married?" He scoffs. "What, do you suppose they walked into Hexham Abbey and asked the vicar to have the banns read?"

"You said he proposed to her here. I assumed they had a Fae ceremony," James says stiffly. "Fae do have weddings, or so I've been told."

The silence drags on for what seems like forever. Robbie stares at him, and then breaks into laughter. "Sorry," he gasps. "It's not you I'm laughing at, it's myself." He takes several deep breaths before continuing. "When I was still a PC in uniform, back in Newcastle, I came across a little boy, maybe six or seven, wandering up and down the pavement. He was lost. I told him that I was a policeman, that he should come with me, and I'd help him find his parents. And he shook his head at me and said, 'You're not a _real_ policeman—you don't have a gun.'"

James considers the possibilities. "American?"

"Yes. His dad worked for an international shipping firm, and had just been transferred from New York. Luckily, his mum showed up a moment later. They'd been in a shop, and he decided to 'explore' the neighbourhood when she wasn't looking."

"Did the mum vouch for you?"

"She was too busy hugging the lad and threatening to blister his arse for giving her such a fright. I reckon that later on, she explained that most British coppers don't carry guns. Thing is, he wasn't wrong. He was a bright, observant lad, and he made a reasonable assumption based on the reality he knew from New York."

"And that's what I've been doing..." James says slowly. "Jumping to conclusions. Sorry"

"Not your fault." Robbie sighs. "I'm the one who's been blundering. You know me so well, and you know more about this part of me than anyone—" His sweeping hand indicates all of the Vale, and by extension, Underhill and the Fae. "—that sometimes I forget how much you don't know. How much you _can't_ know."

"Because I don't have magic." James is proud that he manages to say it without bitterness.

"No—well, mostly not that. Because you haven't got 'the experiential basis for an appropriate cultural context.'" The last sentence is delivered, straight-faced, in a fair imitation of the Yorkshire accent of a presenter of the conference they'd attended on community-oriented policing.

It occurs to James that he's been thinking of Robbie's Fae identity primarily in terms of his magic and his age. It's distracted him from realising that the man is bicultural and bilingual, just like Gurdip Sohal and DS Moalosi. _He was raised in a foreign country_ , _speaking another language_.

"When I chose to live Outside—and I don't regret that, not for a minute—I thought I needed to put all the rest behind me. And without magic, that seemed easiest. I stopped thinking in the old speech, and threw myself headfirst into the modern world. Now, after this past year, I'm discovering that it's not like an old photo album that I can put away in the attic and forget about. I'm trying to understand what it means to me to be of the Yew while living Outside."

James thinks about a boy he'd known at university. Tony was a lapsed Catholic who described himself as a 'quasi-atheist', but wore a saint's medallion he'd received as a First Communion gift. "God and I aren't talking, but Saint Anthony is still a good mate," he'd said in a late-night drunken monologue. At the time, James had offered the standard pious platitudes ("God is patient.") before mumbling an excuse about revising for an exam, and fleeing. Now, in what can best be described as a complicated relationship with God and the Church, James is in a better position to understand Tony—and Robbie. "It's in the past, but still part of your identity."

Robbie snorts. "Feels odd to be having an identity crisis at my age." He shakes his head. "Enough blethering. What were we talking about?"

"Weddings."

"Right. Fae marriages are for formal alliances between families. We couldn't have that even if we wanted it. I've told you why I won't have a _hyldbeand_ , but there are other bonds for other relationships. I can think of at least five different kinds of friendship bonds."

James nods.

"What I want—what I hoped you'd want—is an _efningbeand_."

"A what?"

There's the now-familiar pause as Robbie searches for a translation. " _Efning_ means a partner, an equal. You could call it a consort-bond. There's no compulsion."

"What is involved?" James asks cautiously.

Robbie shrugs. "The _efningas_ exchange tokens. They speak their intention of being together. There are some words that are traditional, but nothing that's required. Like any magic, it's intent that creates the bond." He seems about to say something else, but falls silent.

James is about to protest that he hasn't got any magic in him. _Neither did Robbie's mum_ , he reminds himself. Robbie will provide the necessary magic for the bond; James need only bring his willingness—his determination—to be joined with him. He has that... doesn't he? He looks into Robbie's eyes. "Robert, will you do me the honour of becoming my consort?"

Robbie inclines his head. "I will, and gladly." He hesitates. "It's a good thing that Cousin Maggie isn't here."

James raises his brows at this apparent non-sequitur. "Any reason, other than that it would be slightly awkward, all around?"

"She'd be blinded. The magic here is so old and powerful, I reckon it would be like staring into the sun, for her. Not that she'd be able to get in. The Gate of the Vale won't admit humans, even _hyllcynn_ , except for members of a Fae household."

"But isn't she—? She called you 'my lord.'"

"She was being polite. The _dor_ _éadigende_ puts her under my protection, but she's not part of my household. That only applies to a close blood-relation, a sworn vassal, or a consort."

"But, hang on—how did I get into the Vale?" Robbie had stood back and waited for him to enter first. "Did you do something? Hold the Gate open for me?"

"Nope. I'd guess you got through the Gate for the same reason that you could see the bag that I was told would be invisible to others." When James stares blankly at him, Robbie shakes his head. "Use that big brain of yours."

The first two options can be eliminated. The third... "Did you create the bond before we came to the Vale?" he asks dubiously.

"Not exactly. _We_ created it."

"But we didn't exchange tokens before coming here, and we haven't said the words yet," James protests.

"I told you, magic is all about intentions. That's what creates the bond. And for an _efningbeand_ , it would have to be mutual intent."

"But how? When?"

"If I have to guess, I'd say it was my first night back. We exchanged 'gifts of the body', and there were words—"

James can feel his face reddening. There had been words that night, but not many, and none of the sort that he would want calligraphed and framed, as some couples do with their wedding vows.

"—and there was intent. On both sides," Robbie concludes.

"Did you know it was happening?"

"Not right away. I started wondering when I realised you could see my bag. Like I said, a lot of the royal wedding and my leave-taking were done in a very formal version of the old speech. I thought they'd told me that 'no one' would see it, but I think a better translation would be 'no outsider', meaning no one outside of my household."

"So that's why you made me enter the Gate alone? It was a test?"

Robbie nods. "It wasn't until you got through that I was sure we had a bond."

James's head is spinning. He's not sure how he feels. "So.. we don't need to do anything?" 

"We don't _need_ to do anything else, because the bond is established," Robbie says slowly. "But... you know how some couples marry in the registry office and then have a ceremony afterwards?"

James does know. Many people have a civil wedding to fulfill the legal requirements, and then conduct a ceremony which is personally meaningful, but doesn't conform to the marriage laws of the UK. He's heard of outdoor weddings (in the back garden, on a beach or mountaintop), weddings in pubs, pagan handfastings at Stonehenge, and weddings with no officiant and no witnesses except 'God and the stars in the heavens'.

"I'd like to have a ceremony to celebrate the bond, once we're home again. The token I want to give you is in the bag I can't open, but I found something for now." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small drawstring pouch of black velvet. From it he extracts a wooden pendant on a thin gold chain.

James takes it and studies it closely. It's carved from wood the colour of pale honey, sanded and polished to a gentle sheen. At first, he thinks it's an unfamiliar rune, but then he sees the beveled edges that indicate it represents two runes placed on top of each other. One seems to be the s-shaped yew rune that Robbie wears. The other resembles an angular capital 'P', with a triangular pennant flying from a vertical pole. "Thank you. It's lovely. Is it your initials?"

Robbie looks startled. "No. Initials are only used to mark property, never people. This is what they call a bind-rune... two or more runes combined. You know _eoh_ , the yew... and this one is _wynn_. It means 'joy' or 'harmony'. Together, they mean 'Beloved of the Yew'. Shows that you're my consort." In a lower voice he adds, "And that you bring me joy."

James flushes. "Will you put it on me?" He leans forward as Robbie slips the gold chain over his head. After a long, silent moment, he says, "I don't have anything to give you."

"That's not necessary," Robbie begins.

"Yes, it is." This is a bond of equals, and James needs to give... _something_ , even if he can't match the beauty of Robbie's token. In the pocket of his hoodie, his questing fingers find something slender. It's the fountain pen he used to sign the legal paperwork at Longstone Farms, a million years ago this morning. "I'll give you a promissory note." He does a mental inventory of his knapsack. He didn't bring his notebook, but he could tear a piece from the edge of a map, and write something suitable on a few square centimetres of the Irish Sea.

A flash of white catches his eye. There's a fallen branch from one of the silver birch trees. Even in this enchanted place, the cycle of nature takes its toll. He strides over, pocket knife in hand, then pauses. Best to ask permission of the property owners—or their agent. "Robbie?" He holds up the knife and gestures at the branch. In return, he gets a bemused smile and a nod. With a few careful strokes, he detaches a neat rectangle of bark about the size of his hand, and as an afterthought, cuts a smaller, irregular piece.

He returns to the blanket, and settles down with his unorthodox writing materials. Using the travel guide in his knapsack as an improvised desk, he uses the smaller piece of bark as a test scrap. Once he feels confident, he begins to carefully inscribe the words he's chosen. When he's finished, he rises and offers his handiwork to Robbie.

The other man accepts it, and looks down at the neat black lettering. _Ego dilecto meo, et dilectus meus mihi._ He looks at James, awaiting an explanation.

"It's from the Song of Solomon. 'I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine.'" James continues, "As I said, a promissory note of sorts. I can have it engraved on something more suitable, or if you don't like the verse—"

"Don't change a word. It's perfect as it is. And there's no need to replace this." Robbie holds the birchbark note on the palm of his upturned right hand and looks at it intently. He flicks the edge of it with his left forefinger, and the bark begins to curl up into a tight roll no thicker than a biro.

 _Impossible_ , the rational part of James protests. _The outer bark is too stiff to bend like that. It should crack and break apart._ And the reply comes back from the other side of his brain, _There are more things in Heaven and Earth..._

Robbie holds the coiled bark between his thumb and forefinger. It looks like a solid cylinder of wood with a spiral pattern etched into the tip. "It won't break now. It'll last a good long while." He tucks it into his inside jacket pocket.

"But the words..."

"Are still there," Robbie assures him. "And here—" he taps his forehead. "And here," he adds, pointing to his heart.

James bows his head, overwhelmed by emotion. He fingers the bind-rune pendant. "Where did you get this?"

"In Rothbury, at that artists' co-operative. I wandered in there while you were shopping for riding boots. There was a woodcarver who does custom work. He had a lot of pendants with runes, and I asked if he could do this for me, as a rush job."

"Was he hill-kin?"

"Nah. And that's just as well, or it might have led to some awkward questions. Apparently, he sells a lot of the rune pendants to tourists. He also had crosses and pentacles, Jewish stars and something that looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics. Said he was happy to make anything that wasn't a symbol of hate."

"It's beautifully made, especially for a rush job. What sort of wood is it?"

Robbie rolls his eyes. "Yew, of course. And no, it isn't magic; just a piece of lumber from a mill. Told me he gets a lot of scraps on the cheap that are too small for furniture and such. Any road, what do you want to do now?"

There are a lot of possible answers to _that_ question. "Erm... I don't know what's appropriate here."

"Appropriate?" Robbie scoffs. "This isn't the Cathedral Garden at Christ Church. The only hard and fast rules are no setting fires, shedding blood, or destructive magic. Other than that, we can do as we like. What did you have in mind?"

James takes a deep breath. "I thought we might exchange gifts of the body again."

"That sounds very appropriate to me." Robbie looks at him with undisguised lust. "D'ye know what I was thinking about when we were riding up here?"

"No..."

"I was imagining what you would look like, lying naked on the moss... all pale and gold on the green, in the sunlight."

James smiles. Three seconds later, his Cambridge Rowing t-shirt is on the ground, followed in quick succession by his boots, jeans, socks, and briefs. He tucks his watch inside one of the boots. He raises a tentative hand to the pendant. Robbie shakes his head.

Lowering himself to the ground, James lies down. He knows from personal experience that fantasies can be very specific, and he's not sure what image was in Robbie's head. A deliberate pose is likely to make him resemble the Shelley Memorial, or a sacrificial victim awaiting the knife. With a mental shrug, he stretches out just as he would in their bed at Juniper Cottage. The moss is nearly as comfortable. It’s thick and spongy, and soft against his skin. He looks up at Robbie. "Unless your immediate plans involve a sketchbook and a graphite pencil, I think you're overdressed."

Robbie flushes. "Just taking a moment to admire the view." He strips off quickly, and lies down beside James. "Hello, you."

"Hello." Why is his heart thumping? This isn't their first time together, or the magic ritual that existed only in his imagination. Yet it feels significant, and he finds himself wanting to do this _right_ . The fingers of his right hand begin twitching in a rhythmic pattern. For a moment, he's not sure what's happening, and then he almost laughs aloud. He's going through the motions of an arpeggio. One of his bandmates had mentioned a trick he learned from his guitar instructor. _"If you freeze up, and can't think of what comes next, play arpeggios. It sounds better than silence, and once your fingers start moving, your brain should follow."_

All right... arpeggios it will be. James turns on his side and lays his right hand gently on Robbie's thigh. His fingertips brush the skin with quick, light strokes.

Robbie shivers. "That's new. Tickles," he observes, but he doesn't pull away.

James continues the caresses, moving his hand up Robbie's thigh, across his belly. His fingers dance up the chest to the throat, never pausing. 'Dance' is the right word, James realises, because the arpeggios his fingers are mimicking belong to a lively gigue by Bach. The melody flows through his mind, a soundtrack for Robbie's growing arousal, punctuated by guttural moans and soft mutterings in Old English that require no translation. 

Then James feels Robbie's questing hand wrap around his cock. Bach vanishes, drowned out by the glorious cacophony of _YES! NOW!_ What follows is a blur of hands and mouths touching everywhere, need matching need and kindling desire into desperation.

Robbie's eyes are dark, and his voice raspy. "Want you...inside me."

It's not what James was expecting, but he's happy to comply. "Where's the—" Language seems to have deserted him, along with most of his higher brain functions.

"Knapsack. Pocket," Robbie gasps.

James crawls over to Robbie's knapsack, and unzips the small outer pocket. Inside is a familiar purple tube from Boots. Even though an inner voice is screaming at him to _hurry_ , he forces himself to be methodical about prepping. 

He hesitates at first. It's been a while since he's topped, and he's never done it with Robbie, but once he finds his rhythm, it's just like rowing. Muscle memory takes over.

And just like a cox's calls in rowing, Robbie's urgent voice gives him a rhythm to follow. He's not sure what ' _hrind!_ ' or ' _efeste!_ ' means, but it doesn't matter. His bloodstream is pure adrenaline, and every nerve-ending in his body is sizzling with need, and he is Just. So. Close...... And then the spasm of pleasure rips through him. A moment later, Robbie writhes with his own release.

James rolls off Robbie and collapses in a boneless sprawl on the moss. After what feels like a few years, he's able to focus on the man lying beside him.

Robbie smiles at him. “ _Mīn efning._ ”

James returns the smile and the salutation. “My consort.” No other words seem necessary—or possible. He's still out of breath. 

Eventually, he finds the energy to sit up. He looks down at himself, and grimaces. Though the moss is as soft and yielding as a featherbed, he's now sticky with sweat and semen, and little wisps of green are clinging to his skin. "I would give a hundred pounds for a shower right now."

Robbie purses his lips. "Sorry, I can't organise that for you, but you can have a bath, and it won't cost a farthing." With a soft grunt, he heaves himself to his feet. He strolls towards the pond at the lower end of the Vale, as casually comfortable in his nakedness as a man in his own back garden. Which, James supposes, he is.

* * *

James leans back against the bank of the pond and studies his surroundings. From his position, most of the Vale is obscured by the tall grass and wildflowers that encircle the pond. Behind him, some plant whose leaves were crushed by his weight exudes a pleasant, vaguely herbal odour. _I know a bank where the wild thyme blows..._

Then he looks at his companion, and thoughts of Shakespeare melt into thin air. Only the upper half of Robbie's nude body is visible above the waterline. It's nothing James hasn't seen many times this week, but here... The droplets of water on Robbie's skin glitter in the sunlight, and the amber rune-pendant hanging from his neck seems to glow with its own inner light. His face is relaxed, almost serene, and his eyes pensive. Is he remembering other visits to this hidden place? 

It's a place worth remembering. James stretches languidly in the warm water. It must be at least 30°. "I didn't think there were any geothermal springs north of the Midlands."

"There are not," Robbie replies matter-of-factly. "I wasn't joking when I said that Cousin Maggie would be blinded by the magic here. It's as... as thick as double cream. Normally, I haven't got much of an affinity for water—earth and air, that's me—but here I had to be careful that I didn't set it boiling like a kettle." He frowns. "Sorry, I should have asked if this is all right for you. I don't like it too hot—makes me feel woozy when I get out."

"Erm... it's fine. Thanks." James is feeling a bit woozy, for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature of the water. _I've just exchanged 'gifts of the body' with my Fae lover on a bed of green velvet moss in the Vale at the Heart of the Hills. Why am I surprised that our after-sex bath is heated by magic?_ He chuckles ruefully. _I've become a character in a Fae romance novel, purple prose and all._

"Share the joke?" Robbie rumbles.

James blushes, but decides that only complete openness will do. "I was thinking that all this makes me feel as though I've fallen into one of those paperback romances that Maggie refuses to sell." He searches for a likely title. "Perhaps... 'Seduced by the Fae Lord.'"

Robbie frowns, and James suddenly wonders if he actually finds the books offensive. He'd seemed mostly amused by the petulant customer in the bookshop.

"Prince."

"Sorry, what?"

"'Seduced by the Fae _Prince_ '. If I'm to be cast in a rubbishy novel, then I bloody well want my proper title, thanks." 

James leans forward in a vague bow. "Yes, Your Highness," he singsongs.

Robbie laughs, and flicks one hand, lightly splashing James in the face. "Prat."

"And you love me for it," James replies.

"Oh, is that why? Knew there must be a reason." 

"Perhaps you need a reminder."

"Perhaps I do," Robbie says, grinning.

* * *

Eventually, they clamber out of the water. Naked and dripping, they return to the spot where their clothing is scattered on the ground. They use the picnic blanket as a hair towel, and let the sun and the breeze dry their bodies. 

"Ready to go?" Robbie asks as soon as they're both dressed.

James gives him a pointed look. "As soon as someone unlocks the bloody Gate."

"Sorry." A moment later, the two end stones sink back into the ground with a soft rumble. Robbie leads the way. He paused just inside the tunnel. " _Leóhte!_ " he calls out in a clear, ringing voice, and the stone walls and roof begin to glow with a soft light. He grins at James. "Pity I can't do this at home. It would save a lot on the electric."

James's mind races through possible explanations. He knows the so-called 'faerie fire' sometimes seen in forests is a kind of bioluminescence produced by a fungus that grows on rotting wood. And there are fluorescent minerals that glow when exposed to UV radiation. And none of these natural phenomena should respond to a man shouting 'light' in Old English. _Magic_ , he reminds himself. _Magic is real._

With light—even dim light—to see by, the return trip through the tunnel goes quickly. In what seems like no time at all, James is blinking in the sunlight of the Antechamber. The horses have been grazing contentedly. Eodur tosses his head and tries to blow out when Robbie re-tightens the girth of his saddle. Estelle stands still, but there's a sorrowful look in her eye that reminds James of a painting he once saw of an early Christian martyr forgiving her executioner.

And then they're mounted and riding downhill. After they return the horses to Longstone Farm, they'll go to Juniper Cottage and pack. Tomorrow morning, they'll drive back to Oxford. James can't fight off a feeling of vague apprehension. This holiday has been amazing, and his new relationship with Robbie is more than he ever dared dream of. But... what will happen when they return to their mundane lives in Oxford? The Robbie Lewis riding beside him is not the same man who left Oxford two weeks ago. He's spent a year ruling Underhill, immersed in magic that James can barely comprehend.

James believes that Robbie is truly glad to be free of the responsibility and the politics... but the magic? Will Robbie really be content in a place where he has to conceal who he is and what he can do? Perhaps he would be happier among people who share his heritage. Can James alone be what he needs?

 _He chose you. He made the bond,_ James tells himself, but another internal voice immediately replies, _The bond... happened. He didn't even know about it at first._

For the past week, culminating in today's incredible experience, James has been living inside the pages of a Fae romance novel. Now they're going back to the real world, where 'happily-ever-after' is only fiction. 

"James! Come along; we haven't got all day."

"What?" James comes out of his trance to find that Robbie has reined-in Eodur and dismounted.

"You've got to put your initials on the _Namenastán_. I told you—it's a tradition after your first visit to the Vale."

"Erm, right. How do I do it?" James asks. He doubts his favourite fountain pen will make much of an impression on granite.

Robbie bends down and picks up a twig about the length and thickness of a pencil. He pulls a folding knife out of his pocket, and with a few swift strokes, gives the stick a sharp point. "Here you go."

James stares at the piece of wood in his hand. It must be possible—Robbie's mother did it. He walks over to the boulder, searching for a likely spot.

"There's room down here, next to my name."

James doesn't remember that being the case, but when he bends down, there _is_ a blank space beside Robbie's distinctive ROBᛇ. "But what should I do?"

"Just write. The _Namenastán_ is cooperative."

He touches the pointed end of the twig to the stone, and moves it in the familiar downstroke of a capital 'J', then almost drops it in shock when the granite surface yields like soft clay. Somehow, he manages to continue on to the 'H'.

"You haven't finished," Robbie says.

James frowns. There isn't room enough to write all eight letters of 'Hathaway'. And Robbie did say 'your initials'.

Robbie gently taps the bind-rune pendant. "That's part of your name now."

James lifts the pendant from his chest and twists it around so he can get the details correct. He inscribes the _eoh_ first, then superimposes the _wynn_ over it. After he finishes the last stroke, he traces a finger lightly over the inscription. The boulder's surface is hard again, and the letters look and feel as though they were chiseled by a stonemason.

“What’s in a name?” he quotes reflexively. Quite a lot, actually. Names matter. And changed names reflect other changes. Like Robbie, James is not the same man who left Oxford two weeks ago. The bond is only part of that change. He has no Fae heritage and no magic, but he has had experiences that no living hill-kin can claim. How would someone raised on legends of the Fae have reacted to being locked in the Vale by an angry Fae? He imagines that Maggie would have been patient and tolerant; Ralph, panicky; Phil, full of nervous bluster. None of them would have faced down Hreodbeord _ætheling_ as an equal and told him off. And that's what Robbie needs.

He looks again at his signature on the Name-Stone. He is James Hathaway, Beloved of the Yew (Beloved of Robbie). He has found his Fae, and is doing his mortal best to understand love's magical mystery. He and the Fae Prince will take turns seducing each other. James isn't sure he believes in happy endings, but that's all right. He's not ready for any kind of an ending. He just wants to discover what the next chapter holds.

\--- NOT THE END ---

**Author's Note:**

> Not long after I posted _Away with the Faeries_ , I started working on a sequel: a casefic set in Oxford immediately after the Dynamic Duo returned from the north. I worked on it, on and off (mostly off) over the next two years, and it grew to 8k words before I paused. The investigation was coming along nicely, but I also needed to develop James and Robbie's new relationship, and that was giving me trouble. It also occurred to me that I needed to consider the effects on both men caused by Robbie's year-in-a-week Underhill. And they did have another week left of their two-week holiday.... This story is the result. I will be returning to the casefic, and have some vague plot ideas about future stories in the series.
> 
> I have never studied Old English. The snippets of "the old speech" that appear in this story are based on information from several online dictionaries. If they differ from standard usage, please feel free to assume that this is due to linguistic drift in the Fae dialect of OE. Likewise, I have taken poetic license with my use/interpretation of the Anglo-Saxon runes.


End file.
